For all time, we have wanted to know our past and our future. We have
pondered origin and purpose. But what if the answers to life’s questions were
right in front of us?
Where are we from?
Why are we here?
Is our conscious state all-enduring?
If the bridge between Evolution and Creation exists is it the resolution
we expect or the explanation we fear?
“Creative vision without purpose is blind. How we direct our vision
shall determine how we create our future.”––Menonan Antagon, Supreme Commander
of Creative Forces. Enlon 4. 57,554 B.C.E., Third Creative Period.
pondered origin and purpose. But what if the answers to life’s questions were
right in front of us?
Where are we from?
Why are we here?
Is our conscious state all-enduring?
If the bridge between Evolution and Creation exists is it the resolution
we expect or the explanation we fear?
“Creative vision without purpose is blind. How we direct our vision
shall determine how we create our future.”––Menonan Antagon, Supreme Commander
of Creative Forces. Enlon 4. 57,554 B.C.E., Third Creative Period.
1~ Present Day
London, England
He adjusted his glasses, peering closer, to study the device.
No bigger than a large pencil, it sat just a few centimeters from the center of a freshly-tilled mass of rubble, and colors of the rainbow sprayed from it as a tiny geyser of light. The thing was strange and small and oddly out of place.
William Nolan moved slowly around the object, looking closer now.
And there was a strange noise, dialogue, as if two radio stations were playing, garbled, indistinguishable, as if the device was trying to communicate.
Nolan was a native Londoner, used to reflecting on more logical matters, more practical lessons like Advanced Calculus and Linear Algebra, teaching at the University of London. Not exploring celestial phenomena that didn’t make sense.
He was listening, and he was hearing words: “Come closer. Talk to me, touch me. Take me in your hands. Let me in.”
And then it was quiet, and he bent low, and the spray stopped, and the colors intensified, like a cephalopod changing shade. They began to spin and cluster, disturbed with angry impetus, a tiny boiling spectrum forming within a tiny specter.
Unnerved and unsafe, Nolan wanted to run, but he couldn’t. A feeling of urgency was upon him, an uninvited need to welcome this unwelcome thing into his hands, and he couldn’t bring himself to pull away.
He reached out, ready to touch, ready to feel, ready to except the consequences.
And then he pulled away, gasping. You fool! Stay back!
His hand quivered, his fingers splayed, palm flat, just off the surface. His eyes wide, wavy hair frizzled.
He flinched, and—wavered.
And now he was close, he felt burning warmth, and he thought: It gives off heat?
He lowered his fingers, and felt a static resistance.
And he touched it and . . .
A feeling of euphoria.
London, England
He adjusted his glasses, peering closer, to study the device.
No bigger than a large pencil, it sat just a few centimeters from the center of a freshly-tilled mass of rubble, and colors of the rainbow sprayed from it as a tiny geyser of light. The thing was strange and small and oddly out of place.
William Nolan moved slowly around the object, looking closer now.
And there was a strange noise, dialogue, as if two radio stations were playing, garbled, indistinguishable, as if the device was trying to communicate.
Nolan was a native Londoner, used to reflecting on more logical matters, more practical lessons like Advanced Calculus and Linear Algebra, teaching at the University of London. Not exploring celestial phenomena that didn’t make sense.
He was listening, and he was hearing words: “Come closer. Talk to me, touch me. Take me in your hands. Let me in.”
And then it was quiet, and he bent low, and the spray stopped, and the colors intensified, like a cephalopod changing shade. They began to spin and cluster, disturbed with angry impetus, a tiny boiling spectrum forming within a tiny specter.
Unnerved and unsafe, Nolan wanted to run, but he couldn’t. A feeling of urgency was upon him, an uninvited need to welcome this unwelcome thing into his hands, and he couldn’t bring himself to pull away.
He reached out, ready to touch, ready to feel, ready to except the consequences.
And then he pulled away, gasping. You fool! Stay back!
His hand quivered, his fingers splayed, palm flat, just off the surface. His eyes wide, wavy hair frizzled.
He flinched, and—wavered.
And now he was close, he felt burning warmth, and he thought: It gives off heat?
He lowered his fingers, and felt a static resistance.
And he touched it and . . .
A feeling of euphoria.
***
He walked back slowly, stepping gingerly on the damp ground as he followed the fence-line, the slender cylinder clasped firmly in his hand, brushing his trousers as he neared the house.
Katherine Nolan had raced to the back door and was leaning out, holding to the frame. She was mid-thirties, short, petite, and dressed smartly in a blue Jersey Wrap, and her red hair was pulled into a tight bun.
Her husband was arriving. He had been so excited to see what had landed. To actually witness a meteor falling would be exciting, to find one would be amazing, and this was something he had waited for his entire life. He had wanted to be the first on the scene, thefirst to make the discovery. Perhaps he would be on the evening news. But she could already see something was wrong.
“What is it, love?” she said. “You’ve returned so fast I didn’t have time to follow. I called the police and they—”
She stopped speaking, and held her breath. He was giving her an icy stare, and was quiet, uncharacteristic for her loving husband.
He should be bouncing with excitement, relaying the story over and over. Instead, he was just watching her with unfamiliarity. She remained silent and reserved. “What is it . . . William? Where are your glasses?” she said, mumbling the words without realizing she was speaking.
He gave no reply, continued his piercing stare.
And then his eyes. They were different. Emerald green. They were never— and she saw the thing in his hand. “What is that?”
“A Telon Analyzer, and it is defective.” He spoke in a vexed tone, a pitch she wasn’t familiar with. “The coordinates were imprecise
and I am at the wrong location. And I am unable to project as well. Will that be quite sufficient?”
“What?” she said, with confusion, still trying to understand.
“Where is the passport?”
“What?”
“The international passport. I need it.”
“For what? What are you talking about?” she said, stumbling back.
“The international passport—I need it.” His tone was frank and deliberate, and almost foreign.
“I know what a passport is, William,” she said. “What will you be needing it for?” She stood stolid and immobile as he passed in front of her.
“I have to go,” he said. “I need a credit card also.”
“A credit card? Go where, William?”
He turned back directly, drew very near, his nose almost touching hers. She tipped back in surprise, and now his eyes, the piercing emerald green, spoke to her, as if to say, “Can you see that I am here?” She turned and his chin came forward, almost touching her face, and she felt his hot breath on her neck, not sensual, not gentle as usual, but distant and unsettling, and she fought to understand what was going on.
She stumbled back as if pushed, away from him now, and they were inside the house. “You’re not making sense. What is it?
William, tell me. Has something happened?”
He stood rigid, almost ghostly. “Get it for me now.”
“I’m not getting anything until I get an explanation? Now tell me what this is about.”
He locked eyes with her, and moved close. She retreated, but was against the wall, and he was instantly upon her, pushing her arms against the hard surface, struggling with her, his face into hers as she tried to twist away. “I have no time to waste. I musthave the passport and a credit card and you must get it for me now.”
She fought him this time, trying to break away, but he would not release her. She felt his hot breath against her neck, and
whimpered, “Stop this. What’s wrong with you?”
His eyes narrowed. “Time is of the essence. What do I need say further?” A deep growl emanated from his throat this time and she was taken aback. A mad dog was in her house, and for the first time in their twenty year marriage she was afraid of her husband.
What is this?
She pushed away, and lingered like he were a stranger, stumbling forward, straightening her dress, trying not to appear flustered, touching trembling fingers together, and then trying to convince herself: Don’t over-react, Katherine. He’ll be all right. Perhaps he is disturbed, and he’ll tell me in a minute. I must get hold of my emotions. I must give him time to collect himself. She tried to smile, but he glared impatiently. “You have told me nothing, William.”
She waited for a reply, but nothing came, then she started up the steps, feeling defeated, holding air like she was underwater,
hoping this would all just become a bad dream she would wake up from. And he would be normal again.
She moved through the hall and to their bedroom, stood staring at the curtains, wondering about calling a doctor, or a friend, or anybody. What could have happened? She paused, deliberated whether to call John. Yes, John. She questioned whether to even bring the passports, then began groping through the top drawer of their bureau, and pulled out the two green passports.
Stumbling through the hallway, she arrived at the top rail, and he was at the bottom of the stairs. Hair bristled on the back of her neck as she saw an unfamiliar person standing in her house. She began to descend. I can do this.
“All right, I have the passport,” she said, waving the small books in the air, “and your credit card is in your pocket where it always is.
Now tell me what is going on.”
He looked down and began patting his pockets, then glanced up at her. “Which is mine?”
“It doesn’t matter, William,” she said impatiently. If you’re going somewhere I need to know. So explain this now.”
He grabbed her arm and twisted it back. “Which one?”
“Ow, ow,” she said, reeling, grabbing her wrist. “This one, this is it,” she said, her knees bent deeply as she twitched one of the passports with two fingers. “William!
He snatched the book, and let her go, and she almost fell.
She pushed up, screaming, “William! William, why are you doing this?” And now the tears began to flow.
He moved to the door, pulled the latch, and stepped onto the front walk. She halted at the threshold and watched him cross the stone driveway, pass the garden, and move onto the sidewalk.
“Where are you going? Are you daft? You aren’t even wearing a proper shirt!” she screamed, standing on tiptoes.
He continued without speaking.
“William!” She watched him stride up the narrow walk and out of sight. “My god! I have to call John!”
He walked back slowly, stepping gingerly on the damp ground as he followed the fence-line, the slender cylinder clasped firmly in his hand, brushing his trousers as he neared the house.
Katherine Nolan had raced to the back door and was leaning out, holding to the frame. She was mid-thirties, short, petite, and dressed smartly in a blue Jersey Wrap, and her red hair was pulled into a tight bun.
Her husband was arriving. He had been so excited to see what had landed. To actually witness a meteor falling would be exciting, to find one would be amazing, and this was something he had waited for his entire life. He had wanted to be the first on the scene, thefirst to make the discovery. Perhaps he would be on the evening news. But she could already see something was wrong.
“What is it, love?” she said. “You’ve returned so fast I didn’t have time to follow. I called the police and they—”
She stopped speaking, and held her breath. He was giving her an icy stare, and was quiet, uncharacteristic for her loving husband.
He should be bouncing with excitement, relaying the story over and over. Instead, he was just watching her with unfamiliarity. She remained silent and reserved. “What is it . . . William? Where are your glasses?” she said, mumbling the words without realizing she was speaking.
He gave no reply, continued his piercing stare.
And then his eyes. They were different. Emerald green. They were never— and she saw the thing in his hand. “What is that?”
“A Telon Analyzer, and it is defective.” He spoke in a vexed tone, a pitch she wasn’t familiar with. “The coordinates were imprecise
and I am at the wrong location. And I am unable to project as well. Will that be quite sufficient?”
“What?” she said, with confusion, still trying to understand.
“Where is the passport?”
“What?”
“The international passport. I need it.”
“For what? What are you talking about?” she said, stumbling back.
“The international passport—I need it.” His tone was frank and deliberate, and almost foreign.
“I know what a passport is, William,” she said. “What will you be needing it for?” She stood stolid and immobile as he passed in front of her.
“I have to go,” he said. “I need a credit card also.”
“A credit card? Go where, William?”
He turned back directly, drew very near, his nose almost touching hers. She tipped back in surprise, and now his eyes, the piercing emerald green, spoke to her, as if to say, “Can you see that I am here?” She turned and his chin came forward, almost touching her face, and she felt his hot breath on her neck, not sensual, not gentle as usual, but distant and unsettling, and she fought to understand what was going on.
She stumbled back as if pushed, away from him now, and they were inside the house. “You’re not making sense. What is it?
William, tell me. Has something happened?”
He stood rigid, almost ghostly. “Get it for me now.”
“I’m not getting anything until I get an explanation? Now tell me what this is about.”
He locked eyes with her, and moved close. She retreated, but was against the wall, and he was instantly upon her, pushing her arms against the hard surface, struggling with her, his face into hers as she tried to twist away. “I have no time to waste. I musthave the passport and a credit card and you must get it for me now.”
She fought him this time, trying to break away, but he would not release her. She felt his hot breath against her neck, and
whimpered, “Stop this. What’s wrong with you?”
His eyes narrowed. “Time is of the essence. What do I need say further?” A deep growl emanated from his throat this time and she was taken aback. A mad dog was in her house, and for the first time in their twenty year marriage she was afraid of her husband.
What is this?
She pushed away, and lingered like he were a stranger, stumbling forward, straightening her dress, trying not to appear flustered, touching trembling fingers together, and then trying to convince herself: Don’t over-react, Katherine. He’ll be all right. Perhaps he is disturbed, and he’ll tell me in a minute. I must get hold of my emotions. I must give him time to collect himself. She tried to smile, but he glared impatiently. “You have told me nothing, William.”
She waited for a reply, but nothing came, then she started up the steps, feeling defeated, holding air like she was underwater,
hoping this would all just become a bad dream she would wake up from. And he would be normal again.
She moved through the hall and to their bedroom, stood staring at the curtains, wondering about calling a doctor, or a friend, or anybody. What could have happened? She paused, deliberated whether to call John. Yes, John. She questioned whether to even bring the passports, then began groping through the top drawer of their bureau, and pulled out the two green passports.
Stumbling through the hallway, she arrived at the top rail, and he was at the bottom of the stairs. Hair bristled on the back of her neck as she saw an unfamiliar person standing in her house. She began to descend. I can do this.
“All right, I have the passport,” she said, waving the small books in the air, “and your credit card is in your pocket where it always is.
Now tell me what is going on.”
He looked down and began patting his pockets, then glanced up at her. “Which is mine?”
“It doesn’t matter, William,” she said impatiently. If you’re going somewhere I need to know. So explain this now.”
He grabbed her arm and twisted it back. “Which one?”
“Ow, ow,” she said, reeling, grabbing her wrist. “This one, this is it,” she said, her knees bent deeply as she twitched one of the passports with two fingers. “William!
He snatched the book, and let her go, and she almost fell.
She pushed up, screaming, “William! William, why are you doing this?” And now the tears began to flow.
He moved to the door, pulled the latch, and stepped onto the front walk. She halted at the threshold and watched him cross the stone driveway, pass the garden, and move onto the sidewalk.
“Where are you going? Are you daft? You aren’t even wearing a proper shirt!” she screamed, standing on tiptoes.
He continued without speaking.
“William!” She watched him stride up the narrow walk and out of sight. “My god! I have to call John!”
2~ Two days later
Ephraim, Wisconsin
As she looked up, she was in a huge white room, brilliance all around, her arm raised to her face, and she was focused on her hand.
A surgical glove. The material was constrictive, but finely woven, and followed the contour of her arm as if bonded to her skin, up to her elbow.
She was looking down, and was wearing a tight-fitted, white jumpsuit, and cloth shoes.
She heard breathing, then looked in front of her and saw a thick bed of coarse orange hair. It was a large creature, sedated, and lying on a table.
Four large clawed feet, a feline head, and a striped orange tail draped to the floor. Black stripes covered the back half of the beast from the belly upward,
stopped at the mid-section, and then only straight orange hair from there.
A tiger, of course, but why only half?
She’d seen this before. This whole scene was playing out again, and it hadn’t made sense before, and it wasn’t making any now.
A vast assortment of surgical tools cluttered the walls, with others lying on smooth white tables around the room. An operating room, of sorts, with a crisp
sterile air. The room was nearly twice the size of her living room. Many of the instruments were strange and unrecognizable: a curved gadget with sharp edges,
a long bladed tool that bent backwards with an extended handle, a device with strange protrusions that didn’t make sense, slender, but creepy.
Some items were familiar, others not.
Why am I here? I’m not a doctor.
She held a slim cylinder-like device that displayed colors swimming beneath a transparent surface. She observed, and the tool shimmered in the light.
The tip was vented and a sharp chisel point protruded from the aperture. On the opposite end a shiny screen covered a polished ocher-red handle.
It seemed oddly familiar.
The bottom was lined with white and red dots surrounding a tiny gray keyboard, with markings that appeared strange and foreign, perhaps hieroglyphic.
And she was alone. No Mom or Dad, or Michelle or Colin—just her and the big cat, motionless and quiet.
She lowered her hand and squeezed the device and it buzzed like a hair clipper.
And something was wrong with the big cat now.
The animal was breathing arduously, almost hacking, and she raised her hands in retreat as if she had touched a hot stove.
The device was dripping red now, and she pulled back in horror, and the strangely patterned fur was suddenly thick with blood, trickling down the table leg into a crimson pool that had formed on the floor.
Ephraim, Wisconsin
As she looked up, she was in a huge white room, brilliance all around, her arm raised to her face, and she was focused on her hand.
A surgical glove. The material was constrictive, but finely woven, and followed the contour of her arm as if bonded to her skin, up to her elbow.
She was looking down, and was wearing a tight-fitted, white jumpsuit, and cloth shoes.
She heard breathing, then looked in front of her and saw a thick bed of coarse orange hair. It was a large creature, sedated, and lying on a table.
Four large clawed feet, a feline head, and a striped orange tail draped to the floor. Black stripes covered the back half of the beast from the belly upward,
stopped at the mid-section, and then only straight orange hair from there.
A tiger, of course, but why only half?
She’d seen this before. This whole scene was playing out again, and it hadn’t made sense before, and it wasn’t making any now.
A vast assortment of surgical tools cluttered the walls, with others lying on smooth white tables around the room. An operating room, of sorts, with a crisp
sterile air. The room was nearly twice the size of her living room. Many of the instruments were strange and unrecognizable: a curved gadget with sharp edges,
a long bladed tool that bent backwards with an extended handle, a device with strange protrusions that didn’t make sense, slender, but creepy.
Some items were familiar, others not.
Why am I here? I’m not a doctor.
She held a slim cylinder-like device that displayed colors swimming beneath a transparent surface. She observed, and the tool shimmered in the light.
The tip was vented and a sharp chisel point protruded from the aperture. On the opposite end a shiny screen covered a polished ocher-red handle.
It seemed oddly familiar.
The bottom was lined with white and red dots surrounding a tiny gray keyboard, with markings that appeared strange and foreign, perhaps hieroglyphic.
And she was alone. No Mom or Dad, or Michelle or Colin—just her and the big cat, motionless and quiet.
She lowered her hand and squeezed the device and it buzzed like a hair clipper.
And something was wrong with the big cat now.
The animal was breathing arduously, almost hacking, and she raised her hands in retreat as if she had touched a hot stove.
The device was dripping red now, and she pulled back in horror, and the strangely patterned fur was suddenly thick with blood, trickling down the table leg into a crimson pool that had formed on the floor.
3~
Awaking with a start, Laura Whitmore sat up in bed, her long hair coming up around her shoulders, and she was glaring at her bedroom’s dull green wallpaper.
Her head was throbbing, her cheeks hot. “Jesus,” she said, disgustedly. “What’s wrong with me? That dream again.”
She began rotating her head in circles and massaging the back of her neck, and a cool breeze was whispering through an open screen.
A little dog sat quiet at her feet. “Pepper,” she called softly. His head cocked sideways, trying to figure her next move.
He was a mixed breed Terrier-Lhasa with long ashen fur and salted tinges of brown.
She began rubbing her temples. The dog tiptoed across the covers and dropped carelessly onto her lap. She reached under his belly, leaned forward, and stared out the window.
Large limbs of massive, flame-orange Sugar Maples were swaying in the breeze, huge sentinels guarding the short gravel driveway that sloped to Highway 42.
Laura Whitmore’s little white cottage, two miles south of Ephraim, Wisconsin had become her sanctuary, not only from her depression, but from her parents as well. Two years earlier, few people had thought she would recover from the accident, but her mom and dad had nursed her back to mental health, and she had
improved, at least mostly. Recuperation in her parent’s home had meant doing things her father’s way, and so the cottage had become her escape from the recovery.
The headache had eased, and she glanced at the clock radio on her nightstand.
7:36.
“Damn.”
She pushed the dog off her lap, and jumped out of bed, and dashed into the kitchen. She coaxed a half pint of Phillips Black-berry brandy from the top shelf of her cupboard, mixed the liquor with Diet Coke and ice, and took a sip.
She lit a Marlboro Light and grabbed the cordless off the table and punched in a number.
Colin picked up.
She asked if he could give her a ride, said she was running a little late, her car was in the shop, Michelle was already at work, and she couldn’t get her car back until later in the day.
He told her he didn’t have to be to the Casino until ten, asked what was wrong, then that he thought he could get her to work in time.
She pushed End, crushed out the smoke, and glanced up at the clock.
7:46.
She still had time.
She wiped her mouth, slid the glass across the counter, and began stripping off her night gown and panties as she moved down the hall, then entered the bathroom, then stepped into a warm shower.
Tepid water formed meandering streams across her breasts and down a smooth stomach as she soaped up. The dream was going through her mind again.
For the last two nights it was the same scene. Always the half-striped tiger, the large white room, the surgical tools. She considered explanations: too much television, that linguine the other night, or maybe it was just Steven.
Everything was just Steven
The sudden headaches also troubled her. She had never experienced them before: Extreme pain for short periods that came and went without warning.
Always after the dream, but sometimes when she was awake too, on and off during the last two days.
Without warning, Pepper began yipping wildly. Laura peeked around the shower curtain, as he barked and growled, turning his head from her to the window, back and forth. With each yip his body stiffened, bouncing with excitement. She held the curtain like a plastic cloak, and pushed heavy dripping hair behind tiny ears, then wiped water from her eyes.
She twisted the faucet, looked back to the window, condensation covered the open glass and small rivulets of moisture trickled down the panes.
Maybe I should start closing the damn shade.
Pepper let out a low rumbling growl.
She backed into the stall, awkwardly, with wet goose bumps across her skin, wondering if she should get dressed or stand in the shower until Colin arrived.
But that would be stupid. Paranoid fool. Get a grip.
She grabbed a towel, stepped out, and rushed to the window, slammed the shade, and wrapped the towel around her tightly, then peeked out at the yard.
Nothing seemed out of place. The ugly green lawn mower remained inert right where she had left it a week ago, and her bike lay sprawled in the yard like a lazy horse sleeping off an apple over-dose.
After drying off and slipping on her one-piece dress uniform, she hurried into the kitchen, tapped out a cigarette and lit up, and was drumming fingernails on the table, trying not to think the worst.
Where was Colin?
She took the now half-empty glass of purple spirits, swirled it, sipped it, and thought about her day:
She had to deal with Blake again. She always had to deal with Blake. He was the boss and a pervert. And he just didn’t get it. From behind the counter she could feel the weight of his stare as she cleared tables, like a con eying up a newbie. She always felt vulnerable around him, and it never seemed fair.
And why The Blue Seagull anyway? Why shouldn’t she be working at a newspaper? Maybe, the Newport Gazette, or better yet, the New York Times, or one of those big fashion magazines in New York City. She could have made it. She would have been a good reporter. In high school she was editor of the local school paper, and she always aced her writing assignments. College had held the Journalism major, and it would have been the answer to all of Laura’s dreams, but it didn’t happen; not after the accident. Nothing happened after the accident. Laura had fallen into a stupor, and now she was stuck in the
Blue Seagull Inn because of it. Steady pay for her steady bills, and the only way of avoiding Daddy’s controlling hand.
Pepper sat anxiously by the front door. “Oh, sorry.” She walked over, cracked it open, and the dog hopped out. She peered outside.
She scanned the driveway and everything seemed normal.
She looked down and noticed a scrap of paper resting on the top step just in front of the door. It was brown with turned-up edges and appeared as if it had been placed there deliberately. She checked around, then picked up the scrap, and examined it closer as she walked to the counter. Standing against the cabinet, it appeared the paper had been carefully torn
into an awkward square. And it had printing: W1, R4, W18, R9, R1, R14.The letters and numbers were scribbled sloppily in pencil. She checked the other side. A word and an address: Menonan. 519 Cedar.
Menonan? She glanced at the clock.
“Colin better get here soon.”
She folded the paper and slipped it in her pocket.
Awaking with a start, Laura Whitmore sat up in bed, her long hair coming up around her shoulders, and she was glaring at her bedroom’s dull green wallpaper.
Her head was throbbing, her cheeks hot. “Jesus,” she said, disgustedly. “What’s wrong with me? That dream again.”
She began rotating her head in circles and massaging the back of her neck, and a cool breeze was whispering through an open screen.
A little dog sat quiet at her feet. “Pepper,” she called softly. His head cocked sideways, trying to figure her next move.
He was a mixed breed Terrier-Lhasa with long ashen fur and salted tinges of brown.
She began rubbing her temples. The dog tiptoed across the covers and dropped carelessly onto her lap. She reached under his belly, leaned forward, and stared out the window.
Large limbs of massive, flame-orange Sugar Maples were swaying in the breeze, huge sentinels guarding the short gravel driveway that sloped to Highway 42.
Laura Whitmore’s little white cottage, two miles south of Ephraim, Wisconsin had become her sanctuary, not only from her depression, but from her parents as well. Two years earlier, few people had thought she would recover from the accident, but her mom and dad had nursed her back to mental health, and she had
improved, at least mostly. Recuperation in her parent’s home had meant doing things her father’s way, and so the cottage had become her escape from the recovery.
The headache had eased, and she glanced at the clock radio on her nightstand.
7:36.
“Damn.”
She pushed the dog off her lap, and jumped out of bed, and dashed into the kitchen. She coaxed a half pint of Phillips Black-berry brandy from the top shelf of her cupboard, mixed the liquor with Diet Coke and ice, and took a sip.
She lit a Marlboro Light and grabbed the cordless off the table and punched in a number.
Colin picked up.
She asked if he could give her a ride, said she was running a little late, her car was in the shop, Michelle was already at work, and she couldn’t get her car back until later in the day.
He told her he didn’t have to be to the Casino until ten, asked what was wrong, then that he thought he could get her to work in time.
She pushed End, crushed out the smoke, and glanced up at the clock.
7:46.
She still had time.
She wiped her mouth, slid the glass across the counter, and began stripping off her night gown and panties as she moved down the hall, then entered the bathroom, then stepped into a warm shower.
Tepid water formed meandering streams across her breasts and down a smooth stomach as she soaped up. The dream was going through her mind again.
For the last two nights it was the same scene. Always the half-striped tiger, the large white room, the surgical tools. She considered explanations: too much television, that linguine the other night, or maybe it was just Steven.
Everything was just Steven
The sudden headaches also troubled her. She had never experienced them before: Extreme pain for short periods that came and went without warning.
Always after the dream, but sometimes when she was awake too, on and off during the last two days.
Without warning, Pepper began yipping wildly. Laura peeked around the shower curtain, as he barked and growled, turning his head from her to the window, back and forth. With each yip his body stiffened, bouncing with excitement. She held the curtain like a plastic cloak, and pushed heavy dripping hair behind tiny ears, then wiped water from her eyes.
She twisted the faucet, looked back to the window, condensation covered the open glass and small rivulets of moisture trickled down the panes.
Maybe I should start closing the damn shade.
Pepper let out a low rumbling growl.
She backed into the stall, awkwardly, with wet goose bumps across her skin, wondering if she should get dressed or stand in the shower until Colin arrived.
But that would be stupid. Paranoid fool. Get a grip.
She grabbed a towel, stepped out, and rushed to the window, slammed the shade, and wrapped the towel around her tightly, then peeked out at the yard.
Nothing seemed out of place. The ugly green lawn mower remained inert right where she had left it a week ago, and her bike lay sprawled in the yard like a lazy horse sleeping off an apple over-dose.
After drying off and slipping on her one-piece dress uniform, she hurried into the kitchen, tapped out a cigarette and lit up, and was drumming fingernails on the table, trying not to think the worst.
Where was Colin?
She took the now half-empty glass of purple spirits, swirled it, sipped it, and thought about her day:
She had to deal with Blake again. She always had to deal with Blake. He was the boss and a pervert. And he just didn’t get it. From behind the counter she could feel the weight of his stare as she cleared tables, like a con eying up a newbie. She always felt vulnerable around him, and it never seemed fair.
And why The Blue Seagull anyway? Why shouldn’t she be working at a newspaper? Maybe, the Newport Gazette, or better yet, the New York Times, or one of those big fashion magazines in New York City. She could have made it. She would have been a good reporter. In high school she was editor of the local school paper, and she always aced her writing assignments. College had held the Journalism major, and it would have been the answer to all of Laura’s dreams, but it didn’t happen; not after the accident. Nothing happened after the accident. Laura had fallen into a stupor, and now she was stuck in the
Blue Seagull Inn because of it. Steady pay for her steady bills, and the only way of avoiding Daddy’s controlling hand.
Pepper sat anxiously by the front door. “Oh, sorry.” She walked over, cracked it open, and the dog hopped out. She peered outside.
She scanned the driveway and everything seemed normal.
She looked down and noticed a scrap of paper resting on the top step just in front of the door. It was brown with turned-up edges and appeared as if it had been placed there deliberately. She checked around, then picked up the scrap, and examined it closer as she walked to the counter. Standing against the cabinet, it appeared the paper had been carefully torn
into an awkward square. And it had printing: W1, R4, W18, R9, R1, R14.The letters and numbers were scribbled sloppily in pencil. She checked the other side. A word and an address: Menonan. 519 Cedar.
Menonan? She glanced at the clock.
“Colin better get here soon.”
She folded the paper and slipped it in her pocket.
