VANESSA
David Lee Howells
Copyright 2013
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1 – TAPS
Chapter 2 – MOTHERS
Chapter 3 – ALLIANCES
Chapter 4 – 1 PM
Chapter 5 – 2 PM
Chapter 6 – 4:40 PM
Chapter 7 – ANNIE
Chapter 8 – MELISSA and MARY
Chapter 9 – RELEASE
Chapter 10 – EXPERIMENT
Chapter 11 – FRANK and ALLEN
Chapter 12 – IMAGES and REFLECTIONS
Chapter 13 – VANESSA
Chapter 14 – NATALIE
Chapter 15 – KLUKKERS
Chapter 16 – DAY 4
Chapter 17 – MADNESS
Chapter 18 – DAY 3
Chapter 19 – CHANGING ATTITUDES
Chapter 20 – ATTACK
Chapter 21 – RALPH
Chapter 22 – DAY 2
Chapter 23 – APRON POCKETS
Chapter 24 – RESURRECTION
Chapter 25 – COUNTDOWN
Chapter 26 – GOODBYE
EPILOGUE
Members Of The Tale
Meet the Author
Other Books to Read
Prologue
Atlanta, Georgia, was captured in September of 1864 by Union forces. In a move that earned him the most notable split of military admiration and revilement since the English and French argued regarding Joan of Arc, William Tecumseh Sherman abandoned his regular lines of supply and prepared to embark on his “March to the Sea”, setting his sights on Savannah. His army was made up of 60,000 infantry and 5,500 cavalry. General Sherman severed his connections to supply on November 12th, 1864. On the 14th and 15th, he set about the burning of Atlanta. On the second day, at Atlanta, he stated “I can make Georgia howl,” and set off for the sea cutting a swath of destruction 60 miles wide, burning mostly what they didn’t take for sustenance.
Orders were given by General Sherman to send out foragers who were to take what supplies the Army needed, but not to enter homes or damage private property. Some men were willing to disobey those orders. Some officers were willing to look the other way, often for a cut of what was stolen. These men were given the name: “bummers”.
What follows is a tale of sins unforgiven, of hatred undying, and of a family that formed to face a demon
Chapter 1 – TAPS
The long-forgotten foraging party of the Third Division of XX Corps sat on their dead but faithful frozen mounts in the gathering darkness that belied the fact that it should still be daylight. Soon it would be so black that you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face. There would soon be no moon or stars to give light. So it had been every night for a century and a half. Private Elijah Cooper looked to the heaven of gathering pitch and prayed one more time for forgiveness for himself and his fifty-two comrades. Another in that party, separated from the others, seethed within his madness, swearing revenge would surely be his tomorrow.
That same evening, far to the north, were other players in the stages that would eventually follow. A minor player, for now, was Barbara Meissner; a student at RPI in Troy, New York. The hour was getting late for most people, but she had a long way to go before turning in. Keeping a grade average above 3.7 meant late hours, little sleep, and almost no social life. She leaned back and took in the smells and sounds of a student’s dormitory nightlife. Coffee, pizza, perfume and beer were the traditional aromatic essences in a woman’s dormitory, trading individual intensities and dominance according to the time of day, and which day of the week it was.
Since it was a Tuesday night, the smell of coffee led the pack and sounds were low key...except for Barbie Babe. Most female dorms had one, but this one really took the biscuit, as her great grandmother used to say. Melissa Banks was Barbie’s real name, the one most people used to her face. She had an unfair share of looks and her parents were mega-wealthy. Added to that, she had her hooks into Allen Hawthorn. This one would play a larger role in a grander game, but she didn’t know that, yet.
Barbara sighed. “You think a Barbie would be happy, but nooooo.” The sounds from the room beyond her wall confirmed that thought.
Barbara Meissner took a study break and launched a gossip-information recon. RPI was a technical college, but she chose a decidedly low-tech glass, placing it against the wall and settling her ear to the other side of it. Barbie lore was always good at the breakfast table for laughs with her friends.
“This bites Allen, it really bites! This is mega-unfair of your mother! I had things all planned out. You’ll just have to call her and tell her to delay the meeting till next week. That’s not asking too much, is it? I’m going to look real foolish if you bail now!”
“Melissa, I’m really sorry. I feel bad enough about it already, so cut me some slack, will you? I’ll make it up to you, I promise, as soon as I get back. This isn’t going to take long, but I have to go. I gave my word and Mom is counting on me to keep it. Like I told you, this meeting is tied into the funds that keep me here in RPI. What good would attending my birthday party be if it meant I couldn’t be here next semester because I’m out humping jobs to pay for the semester after that? And I’ve got to hang there if I accept some kind of offer my benefactor is proposing till Monday.”
“Fine, FINE, leave already! Your mind is made up and there’s nothing I can do about it. Just don’t think I’m going to hang around the phone waiting for your call!”
“That was uncalled for, and kind of dumb,” he thought. Melissa wouldn’t be waiting by the phone because she had her SatCom with her 24 hours, either in her purse or hooked on a belt clip. Still, he got the hint. Maybe it was just as well, for Allen didn’t feel much like talking to her for the time being. Things had been tense, lately. Melissa seemed so pre-occupied with things social, which meant little to him.
Sometimes, they were a perfect match. Other times, she was from Mars...or was that Venus? He might have been able to break it off (he’d thought of doing that once or twice a week), if she wasn’t so damned attractive. Allen Hawthorn left Melissa’s dormitory and stopped outside to look at the stars. His mother used to show them to him, when he was little, teaching him the constellations and how to tell a planet from a satellite from a star. His mother would live to see Allen’s star rise in a constellation neither had even dreamed of.
Rachel Hawthorn Gladstone sat in the dark at her dining room table, looking through the bay window at the stars. The re-heated coffee warmed the memories stirred by the sight of Pleiades. It was her favorite constellation, also called the Seven Sisters. It was a small star grouping that actually consisted of many more than seven, but only seven were visible to those who had named the cluster so long ago. She thought, “Isn’t that the way of things? Things are always more complex than they seem on the surface.”
A letter sat on the antique cherry wood table. She wasn’t extravagant, but what she had, she made sure was worth having. Her son had picked up on that quirk; what her husband, Frank, called the Hawthorn vanity gene. It was just as well that he was out with the kids at a charity baroque concert, for she really didn’t want to deal with him right now. Who gave charity concerts with baroque music, anyway?
Her terry cloth house-robe was another familiar touchstone from the past, like the Super Mom cup Allen had given her for Christmas twelve years ago. She took her coffee and the letter, walked over to the living room to her favorite reading chair and read it, again.
“Dear Mrs. Gladstone: Your son, Allen Hawthorn, will reach his 21st birthday on Wednesday, September 26th of this year, 2047. According to our agreement, his benefactor will be afforded a private meeting with Allen for no less than two hours.
You will be provided with a live video stream of the meeting (no sound) as a token of his good intentions.
“The identity of my employer will only be revealed to Allen at that time. You and Allen both have the right to halt the meeting, temporarily, if either of you feel the need. My employer and your son may continue their conversation after the two hours only with the full agreement from all parties. Regardless, Allen’s college tuition assistance will continue until he will be graduated with no more than six years of full-time attendance. All of this is in your copy of the signed agreement reached after the unfortunate demise of your husband, Mr. Carl Hawthorn.
“The research on Allen’s paternal family tree must be brought with you on standard mini-disc (MiDi) format. This must be complete and reach back four generations. Pictures of each ancestor are recommended but not required. You have already informed me that this has been achieved and we thank you for your efforts.
“Also, recall that your husband, Frank Gladstone, and the children from his previous marriage, are not to be in attendance.
“If Allen agrees to terms proposed by my employer, he must be prepared to make himself available for an excursion that will last until Sunday, September 30th of this year. All expenses and arrangements will be arranged and taken care of by me.
“Be assured my employer has Allen’s best interests at heart and that this meeting will represent a marvelous opportunity for his personal advancement. I look forward to meeting the two of you personally. Gustav Mendelssohn, P.C. September 17th, 2047.”
Tomorrow was the meeting she had agreed to fourteen years ago. She had no more of a clue to what it was all about now than she did back then. The proceeds from Carl’s life insurance and shares of stock in the company he spent half his waking hours with had paid off the house and other debts, with a reasonable sum left over that she had invested most of. The rest, along with what she made part time, gave them comfort, but school tuition went up every year. Allen’s two scholarships also helped, giving her son the opportunity to invest some of the funds Mr. Mendelssohn sent into things like a reliable vehicle and a PC that was the envy of all but the snootiest of classmates; she laughed to think that most of them didn’t know what to do with their status symbols other than to download games and naughty pictures, probably.
Frank had his own children to plan college assistance for. He would have helped with Allen’s, but it wasn’t necessary. That likely saved a few squabbles on finances and responsibility. There were enough things to squabble about already. Yet, with all that, what really nagged her was that her consuming curiosity might never be satisfied as to the identity of their mysterious benefactor.
Not that she wasn’t grateful. When Carl died in that awful accident, her world fell apart. Allen was only four then and hardly remembers his father now, but she could recall holding him for nights on end. She remembered Allen’s unanswerable questions about when Daddy was going to come home, and that brought up the soft ache in her heart any thought of that time would bring. Frank had suggested she see a psychoanalyst to get her feelings out in the open. Maybe it would help her feel better, but she didn’t all that much want to feel better. Why was it that men tried to help, when it wasn’t help that a woman was looking for? Just a strong shoulder and some sympathy. That wasn’t too much to ask, was it?
Well, a two-hour chat for the person who anonymously stepped up and took care of everything from tuition to funeral arrangements is not too much to ask, either. She went to the ultrawave to heat up her coffee, again. “(Sigh) But who could it be?”
The following morning, far to the south, below the Mason-Dixon Line that now represented only a minor historical artifact promoted by roadside souvenir stands, Annie stood on the porch of her home. Annie was mad. She was also dead. That was a dangerous combination. Her children weren’t up yet, but the birds were singing. Today, the soldiers will come again, as always. Maybe today her Archibald will return and they can be a family again.
Southern sunrise also saw those same dead but never resting soldiers open their eyes to another November 23rd. It was always November 23rd. They awakened in their saddles, and some would halfheartedly curse the sun for rising again. Their commanding officer, Major Benjamin Covington, looked at his men and felt his heart ache for them.
“Refuse it,” he rallied, “REFUSE IT, BY GOD!” But his will was too weak to fight the unseen force that beckoned them on. Weariness beyond bone weighed upon the soldiers of Sherman, too fatigued to rage at their fate or to do anything but begin the Passion Play on yet another day. By 9AM, they had left Little River on the first leg of their journey of fourteen miles. There was no hurry. There was only one way, though each prayed for some other way, by habit. God wasn’t listening to their prayers today, as usual.
Meet the most ancient (living) member of the coming dance of the fates. Ryan David Fitzgalen half woke to that semiconscious state where memories had surprisingly clear details. His wife was out somewhere. He’d find out where when she returned. Today was the day he’d meet Allen Hawthorn, up close and personal. It wouldn’t be the first time, though. Ryan turned back the pages of time.
It was in the playground of Myer Elementary School in nearby Hurley. The yard was full of 1st through 5th grade students. Ryan watched, leaning against his 2030 Chevy Solar SUV in the shade of an old elm. The children were so full of energy and there was constant activity to catch the eye across a wide vista.
Kickball, swings, jump ropes and catch are all games that seem to stay the same no matter how many centuries pass. No one ever improved on the basic concept of the slide, with the minor exception of changing the surface to a type of plastic that no longer burned youthful thighs on sunny days (he smiled at that painful but sweet memory). Playgrounds were one of the few things he had seen stay relatively constant in a world fascinated with advance and gadgetry. There was one child his eyes kept coming back to. He saw the boy in the outfield in a game of kickball. He was a handsome young lad, healthy and full of piss & vinegar, as his mother used to say. There was a bruiser of a child stepping up to the plate and the backfield was moving further back in anticipation. Sure enough, “mini-moose”, who was a hand and a half taller than any of his classmates, power-launched the ball with a “whump”. The boy ran back as the ball stopped rolling ten feet away from Ryan’s feet. The boy ran up, grabbed the ball and executed a fine drop kick to get it back into play. The boy then turned around and looked at him. Ryan said, “It’s not time yet, Allen,” and got back into his SUV. As he drove off, the rear view mirror showed the boy standing there, watching him, until the shouts of his teammates brought him back to the game.
Then, that sweet voice from nowhere and everywhere softly whispered to him, “That one’s going to break some hearts.” That voice came from a soul named Vanessa. She was much older than Ryan. At least her spirit was.
“Give me a break; he’s only in 4th grade.
“They’re starting earlier all the time. You’re old enough to know that. I think he’s ready for “the talk”, if you know what I mean.”
Ryan recalled shaking his head, signaling a left hand turn, and driving off to his next appointment. They loved each other enough to give each other the last word half the time.
The same sun also warmed the windows of an office building in Kingston, NY, where a secretary rose from her desk to personally greet two arrivals. “Mrs. Rachel Gladstone and Mr. Allen Hawthorn. We have all been looking forward to your arrival. Please, come this way.”
Mrs. Rachel Gladstone took a mental snapshot of the office, beginning with the secretary. She was attractive, but not stunning. Long, very dark brown hair and dark complexion. Mediterranean? Her voice was warm and her smile was genuine. The office reception area was cozy, but not cramped. There were enough diplomas on the wall to reassure, but not overwhelm. The furniture was pleasing to the eye, but not antique enough to fear placing a cup on a table. The whole picture, sh
e thought, was a balance between comfort, hospitality and confidence. The secretary seated them in the lawyer’s office in comfortable (not plush) chairs and asked them, politely, to wait. The secretary smiled once more and quietly closed the door.
Mr. Mendelssohn’s office featured the familiar and traditional. Wood was mostly preferred over plastic. There was the typical desk, and the wall had the hallowed framed two-dimensional metal representation of what ancient mariners must have once thought the world looked like (a Navy man?). Then there were pleasant additions that reflected attention to detail and concern for clients: the quiet whisper of an air filter, oblique and full spectrum lighting. There was a tea and coffee service ready with porcelain cups.
“Good morning,” said a man, entering the room. “Mr. Mendelssohn will be with you in just a minute. Don’t mind me, I just work here.”
Mother and son both took stock of a mildly graying but sturdy man in a light tan sports coat as he walked over to a computer port and pressed his thumb on the recognition panel. The screen immediately came to life, responding to his obviously experienced taps on the finger pad. Though too far away to see clearly what was on the screen, one could see a lively series of transitions before stopping at a bank of pictures of people. The door opened again.
“Please forgive me for keeping you waiting. I am Gustav Mendelssohn, at your service. Please, call me Gustav. I think familiarity will encourage our time here to be the most fruitful.”
“Fair enough,” said Allen. “Why don’t you start the ball rolling and tell us about yourself? We’re in the dark, so shine a little light, please.” The man at the computer suppressed a smile. It was brief and subtle, but good mothers are observant creatures. Rachel Gladstone was a good mother. Allen missed the strange man’s smirk entirely. Rachel saw that as well and thought, “One more reason that men will never be mothers.”
“(Good man. Gets right to the point, excellent.) Very well, I was graduated from Cornell University in Ithaca, NY, in 1998 in the top ten percent of my class. I preferred general practice for the first part of my career. I sold off my practice to devote full time to serving one client about twenty years ago. Mind you, this was not out of laziness. I’ve had to subcontract paralegals and farm out some of the issues to other specialty firms whom I have come to trust.”
Rachel thought, “He knows his limitations and appears happy with his station. Add that to the messages of the whole office and trust has taken seed, but mystery has planted it on rocky soil, as far as I’m concerned.”
The lawyer continued. “I am Snow Shoe, PA, born and bred. I moved to New York to take over a practice from a retiring lawyer. I was married and divorced twice, and have no children. I like sailing, skiing and classical music. Will that do, for now?”
“Pass-times are solitary and introspective,” Rachel mused, “...which fits his profession. I like this man. No mixed signals, everything is consistent with his personality. Will that mean that I will like his employer? Twenty years of serving one person (man?); the two of them would have to be compatible.”
The lawyer’s question had been aimed at Allen, who responded with, “Sure, sorry if I seemed abrupt. So, what happens now?” He refrained from mention that this meeting had created a lot of turmoil for him back in Troy. Though not as observant of his environment as his mother was, Allen had been brought up in an atmosphere of respect and good manners. This was not lost on the other two men in the office.
“Well then, Master Allen, it is time you met my employer. I present to you, and to you, Rachel, my employer.” Gustav said no name, but extended his hand to indicate the man at the computer station.
That man stood up, gave a smile and a slight bow, and said, “Good morning. Please, call me Ryan.”