Shadow of Turning

By Clayton Carpenter

When opportunists with criminal purposes worm their way into the power structure of a large school system, compromise law enforcement, and gain access to all that tax money, education takes on a whole new meaning. As events escalate, ugly acts of violence, disguised as accidents, are inflicted upon those who get in the way. When Ben Kelly, a man on shaky emotional underpinnings, raises questions, he finds himself a target by people who will stop at nothing to carry out their felonious schemes. His unique path through hard circumstances down a perilous road of action provides the drive for what happens to him and those around him.

In The Annunaki Woman, Rena, station chief of an interstellar craft, carries out her orders to attempt capture of a human with unusual DNA components. All hell breaks loose. She is stunned when her subject, Ben Kelly, and two companions react with deadly force and annihilate her team. More deadly events transpire and Rena is forced into tough decisions which throw her into conflict with her own people. Her problems are complicated by manifestations of Earths development of The Singularity, the intrusion of ancient races, and entities guarding old secrets emerging to engage her. Rena and Kelly are thrown together to survive. The action roars out of New Orleans into Arkansas and to other places farther north and then on to other very different places very far away.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 10, 2004
• ISBN: 9780595770793

Clayton Carpenter

Clayton Carpenter graduated Rhema Bible Training Center in 1985. He has taught from the pulpit and has many years experience teaching in the Sunday School program. The predominate belief of a pre-tribulation rapture he found confusing, not backed up with supporting scripture, and mostly just guess-work. While studying, he found the key to the Divine Order of The End times in 2 Thessalonians chapter two. Since then the Old Testament, New Testament and the teachings of Jesus began to fall in place to produce an accurate picture of the plan of God for the end times.

Book preview

I.

UNEVEN GROUND

ONE

November 16

Some questions.

Ever been so angry you couldn’t sleep?

Ever been lied about, but you couldn’t make it right?

Ever want revenge against the people who did it?

How’s this for a situation? You view others with childlike trust in the basic goodness of human nature only to find yourself the victim of a vicious game where the guaranteed loser is you? That ring a bell? If it does, you understand that the consequences can be disastrous. I know. I’m living the consequences.

Ever been set up for the long hard fall and been so devastated by the outcome that your honest human reaction was to get even with a vengeance? And here comes the worst part: An ugly awareness explodes into your mind. There is the clear and sudden understanding that if you don’t do something, others will go unpunished for what they did to you. Unpunished, hell. That’s not the word for it. They were, in all likelihood, hee-hawing and dancing in the street right after it happened.

This kind of thing can lead a person down either of two paths. You can whimper and moan in the night and do nothing but let it eat at you. You can lie there and hope your torment will go away. Sometimes the pain will ease up. But it never lets go. Not for good. It just lurks below the surface and barges back with a vengence when you least expect it. During a meal or maybe during a car ride, something will trigger your hurt and it all comes crashing down intense and powerful. Simple pleasures are ripped away in a fleeting moment like dying leaves in an ice storm, and the joy in living is nowhere to be found. You can live out your life that way—if you call that living.

There is a second path. Feelings can be turned into actions. Actions that would cross the line between thinking and doing. Maybe start with the kneecaps and work your way up.

For me there’s no choice. I’ve gone down the first path long enough. It’s time—past time—to give back some of the pain.

Have I got your attention now?

My name’s Ben Kelly and I’ve never killed anyone, at least not yet. But, hey, I plan on doing some serious payback and writing about it. If I’m caught, I want the truth out there for everyone to see, for everyone to know what happened and why. When you get right down to it, that’s the reason for this journal, that and the fact that it reinforces my resolve to inject severe justice where it’s needed.

Is that wrong? Am I all that different from you because I plan to act on my feelings? I guess you’ll have to decide. But one thing’s for sure. This is going be one hell of a ride.

November 17

I was staring without purpose from the third floor window of a big old New Orleans house. I started getting philosophical. Now I’m not Plato or Aristotle mind you, but I have some theories about our cradle to the grave existence. I figure the hopes and dreams of most folks just fade into the fog of the daily grind. By the time you’re fifty-five, you realize you’re one crooked look at the wrong person from having to update your resume and a quarter inch from a cheap watch. You know, up at six to get to work by eight, lunch at noon for thirty minutes and back home at six. You join that gray and forlorn flood of the overused and weary. Then your bright tomorrow starts with the same routine. You may or may not be getting wiser but one thing is certain. You sure as hell aren’t getting any younger. Step by step and day by day, the hooded figure with the scythe draws closer. Accepting it is one thing. Accepting it and being abused at the same time is quite another. Now don’t misunderstand. There’s not a damn thing wrong with honest work. It can be uplifting and delivers a feeling of having real value. Plain and simple though, a few people out there with ugly motives and the power position to shit downhill can snatch away your dreams forever without warning, without cause. Maybe Aristotle wouldn’t have said it just that way, but based on my experience it rings true.

My hopes, my dreams and the essentials that made me who I used to be were slam dunked in short order. A handful of vipers slithered through a murky cloud of deception and dirty tricks to unload a salvo of rehearsed lies. The public assassination of my character was the target. They hit the bull’s eye. And by the way, they did more than mess with my life. They did other horrible things. Things that make you wonder how low human behavior can sink.

I remember thinking about going postal when it all came down. But then that kind of action could have gotten me killed, or imprisoned at best. Sorry options. But the way I’m living these days is a sorry option as well. Now it’s been over a year since it all happened. A year of listless days and sleepless nights. It’s been a lost year that can never be recovered.

I was respected in my profession. I was dedicated. Hell, my job was my life. It gave me a sense of purpose and accomplishment. Looking back from the here and now, I can see that I was like that slow kid everyone knows from junior high. Remember? He was the one who kept going merrily along but never caught on to the real rules of the game. It was like that—being laughed at and not with—and not knowing the difference. So I just kept on doing what I was doing.

Then they struck at me with malicious intent.

Now I’m blacklisted, with no options in my field or anywhere else requiring references or a job history. I’m down to a tiny bit of money and few choices.

I was thinking about all this as I stared from the window.

The house I lived in was huge. It was so damn big that it was divided it into seven apartments. I lived in the cheapest one at the very top. The house shadowed City Park across the street. Up and down the street, I could see lots of oak trees interspersed with magnolias and palms. Neatly trimmed azalea bushes dotted well kept private lawns.

My gaze fell on my little Chevy S-10, curbed below. It was white with a cheap aluminum camper shell. The truck was six years old and carried an expired Texas inspection sticker on the windshield. It was uninsured and I hadn’t made a payment in recent months. The repo man could show up any minute. I suppose the right thing to do would be to turn it in to the bank. But I couldn’t do that. I had to be out of this apartment in a few days and I needed wheels to get out of this city. I didn’t know where the hell I was going, but I couldn’t see myself staying here and joining the hoards of homeless men scattered throughout New Orleans.

An NOPD cruiser drifted around the corner and parked across the street from my truck. A very large cop got out. Muscular, fat and bald in one serving. Looked as if his workouts had been punctuated with visits to Krispy Kreme. He ambled toward my truck and my heart fluttered. I needed that truck. He stopped and squinted at my pickup and then moved on to a white Toyota Tacoma parked behind it. After writing something on a pad, he detached a single sheet of paper and placed it on the Toyota’s windshield. He looked around and drifted back to his vehicle.

I remained at the window a long time, staring vacantly as afternoon turned to night.

November 18

After another tossing, turning night, I sat up in bed. Cold sweats again. I let my eyes adjust to the dark and reached for my watch on the nightstand. The numbers displayed 5:31.

I’d tried to read myself to sleep. Didn’t work. The book telegraphed its plot like a wild haymaker. Worse, several times during the novel an overweight circus midget would appear and cut the cheese. I couldn’t relate the little chunky fellow’s boisterous farting to anything else in the story. A main character was attacked and barely escaped with his life. The midget showed up and without preamble commenced giggling, farting and dashing in circles. Made no sense. Guess it was supposed to be a comedic break of some kind because at no point were the midget’s activities tied into anything else. Maybe novels were being dumbed down to match television. Or maybe it was just me. I was seeing negatives everywhere. If I were to win the lottery, I would no doubt die in a car crash or be fatally attacked by a flatulent midget right after I claimed the money.

I eased out of bed. The house seemed darker than usual. At the window I peeked between the blinds. It was November dark. About half of the street lights seemed to be working. A light mist fell and water droplets appeared imitating fast moving tiny snowflakes as they scampered past the streetlights. Faded light fell on vehicles along the curb. My truck was still there. Relieved, I walked into the tiny bathroom and flipped the light switch. Nothing happened. No light. Hoping for a burned out bulb scenario, I went to the living room and flipped the switch. Again, no light. Stupidly, I flipped the switch several times. I knew the power would be cut off soon, but the reality came as a shock. Grateful for gas water heaters, I showered and dressed. By then weak sunlight slipped through the windows.

I needed coffee and a newspaper. In New Orleans, that would now be the Baton Rouge paper since the Times-Picayune wasn’t sold on a daily basis anymore. My needs could be gratified a few blocks away at the Winn-Dixie on Carrolton Avenue.

Back in the apartment, I crossed the kitchen’s cracked and pitted linoleum to sit at the creaky table with my second cup of Winn-Dixie complimentary coffee. I’d finished off the first while wandering through the store pushing an empty cart and acting as if I were looking for something. Pause and stare at the canned beans in aisle four. Take a sip. Wander to produce and stare at the iceberg lettuce. Take a sip. And so on. I don’t know why I did that crap. Trying to keep up appearances? I should’ve just grabbed the damn coffee and left.

I went to the classified section first. Then it hit me. Who was I kidding? Forty-six years old and too broke to make it to the first paycheck. And the emotional stability necessary to hold a nine-to-five had been yanked out of me. Anger and frustration shot up like twin rockets and careened inside my head. I slammed the whole newspaper into the trash and finished the coffee with a thousand yard stare.

A little later I decided on a phone call. I had one of those pain in the ass prepaid calling cards that require about a half million digits to make a call. My daughter in California, a pleasant by-product of a failed marriage, had sent it to me with the promise that I would let her know how I was coping. I looked over the instructions and picked up the phone. Well, son of a bitch. No dial tone. Electricity and phone, both gone on the same day. No, I wasn’t coping worth a damn.

I paced from one end of the apartment to the other and wound up outside the front door where I discovered a Post-It note. It was from Lee Ann, the solitary light in my fogged-up world. The note said she was taking me to dinner. The tone said dinner was a fact bound to happen. That was Lee Ann’s way. She often mandated things, and that was fine with me. I could use a good meal and good companionship. Maybe she would mandate some good loving afterward.

I went to the truck. The sun was shining now and the clouds that brought the earlier rain had gone somewhere else. Little drops of water glistened on the grass and on my truck. The day was about to be beautiful in the midst of my personal turmoil. I stopped and tried to soak in the fresh smells and the clear sky.

I felt a brief peace. It occurred to me that sometimes nature could be a good influence if we let it. Feeling a little better, I grabbed a bundle of electrical cords from the truck. Using the electrical supplies I was able to run electricity into the apartment from an outlet in the stairwell landing. I began springing cords off one another using a multi-receptacle surge protector. I got power to the refrigerator, the TV and a lamp in the living room. I was set up so that I could run a cord to whatever appliance or light source I needed.

I drug out camping gear. Camping out seemed my only option. I couldn’t stay here. And God knows I couldn’t afford motels. I figured I’d try the natural life for a while. Where better to work out the final details of my revenge? I wasn’t much of a camper, but I’d have to make a go of it. It was necessary.

I planned to stuff the camping gear and anything else of practical value into the little truck and leave the furniture and other stuff behind. I had no options on that.

I was stacking the camping gear into a pile by the kitchen table when insistent knocking burst forth at the apartment door. I took a quick glance out the window. No one was near the truck. I peeked through the door’s yellowed blinds to see Harold, my nearest neighbor. He was in his middle sixties and big puppy friendly. Six-four or so, he sported a large potbelly on an otherwise slender body. Bifocals hung precariously at the end of a Jay Leno nose enhancing an already owlish look.

As soon as I opened the door, Harold said, Where ya been? I haven’t seen ya for a few days, so I got worried. Is my man Ben all right? Just concerned, ya know. Contrary to ideas often portrayed by Hollywood, natives of New Orleans do not have Georgia accents. Harold’s speech patterns and accent sounded more like Brooklyn than Deep South. Plus, Harold tended to say ya know a lot.

I’m fine. Just been busy getting ready to move.

Move? Harold looked surprised.

Yeah, I’ll be out of here in the next couple of days.

Harold shrugged. Well, I guess you couldn’t find a job, huh? The economy in New Orleans is depressed, ya know. He pronounced it New Awyens. Harold tracked the extension cord running from the landing into the apartment. His eyes darted in several directions as he tried to peer inside. He said, Ya want to leave me ya new address? I’ll be happy to forward the mail for ya.

Thinking fast, I lied. I’ve already done that.

Where ya going?

Oklahoma. Another lie.

Really, what part? Ya got relatives up there?

Uh, the eastern part. I have a sister in Muskogee.

Okay. Anything I can do for ya, let me know, ya know? What about a phone number to where you’re going? Just in case something comes up and ya need to be notified. Ya know?

I’ve got a number down in the truck. I’ll get it for you before I leave. I began to back away a little. For once, Harold took the hint.

Okay Ben, I’ll see ya before ya go.

Sounds good.

I hated that. I liked Harold and lying to him bothered me. But what was the alternative? Tell him I was leaving to work out a plan to kill some sorry bastards?

November 19

I walked from afternoon’s bright sunshine into the dim light of the narrow and twisting stairway leading up to my apartment. I had familiar clouds on my mind and the mail in my hands. On the lookout for Harold, I hustled. Once inside, I looked at three days worth of mail. Not figuring on good news, I seldom bothered to look in the mailbox. This time a couple of slicks from department stores addressed to occupant declared amazing savings were to be had but only if one acted with lightning speed. A letter from Syndicam Incorporated said that they appreciated my application, but unfortunately they felt I was overqualified for the position of inside book sales. And last, but not least, a letter from the Bank of New Orleans said I was four hundred fifty-four dollars and twenty-nine cents overdrawn. The tone of the letter was not friendly. Legal action was forthcoming. I slam dunked the whole mess into a garbage can.

The bathroom had exposed plumbing set off by peeling blue paint. I stood in front of the mirror, where a diagonal crack descended from the top left. That had been the work of a previous tenant. I harbor no malice toward mirrors. The reflection looking back at me still had most of his hair—dirty blond with occasional gray strands and in need of cutting. Most of my teeth were still there. One time while drunk and alone, I counted them. Came up with twenty-nine, as I recall. Put me in a nice suit and I could pass for a senior executive of some kind. I guess I’ll make a decent enough bum. Enough of that. Self-pity isn’t pretty on anyone. I decided to talk to myself about something else while packing and organizing.

It was after dark and I was standing in the middle of the living room examining my tent, sleeping bag, suitcases and assorted Coleman equipment. I was trying to decide how it would fit into the little truck when Lee Ann walked in. She never knocked; she just turned the knob and walked on in. Startled, I turned and stared. Lee, as I called her, was something to stare at. An even six feet tall and standing there with legs that seemed to extend into the stratosphere, she was an eyeful. Her hair was jet-black and fixed into some kind of pixie cut which emphasized golden brown eyes that were on a level with mine.

After taking one look at Lee, the average supermodel would slink away feeling inadequate. With her assets, she could have been a high octane bitch. Thank God she wasn’t wired that way.

Lee got right to the point. She pointed a manicured finger at me. If you’re crazy enough to leave me, then I’m crazy enough to feed you before you go. Put on some decent clothes and let’s get out of this hideous hole. I’m starving. I nodded and crossed the room. And while you’re at it, Lee went on, explain to me why there’s a big pile of crap stacked in the middle of the floor with electrical cords running all over the place and the rest of this dump is darker than midnight except for this piss poor excuse of a living room.

I grabbed a clean shirt and a pair of newer Wranglers that I had laid out on the sofa. Her eyes followed every move, homing in on the part where jeans went off and jeans went on.

Electricity’s gone. I’ve been telling you that things were getting bad…

Jesus Christ. Her voice rose on the Christ part, I could have lent you money for the electricity. And then almost as an afterthought, I could have lent you some for the phone, too.

You knew about the phone?

Why do you suppose I left a note? You are temporarily disconnected according to the phone company. All this bullshit could have been avoided.

Lee, I know you could have lent me the money, but I couldn’t have repaid it. I pulled on the last Roper You ready to go?

You bet. Let’s get out of here.

Lee drove us to a place out in Metairie, a big urban area butted up against the western edge of New Orleans. The restaurant advertised itself as a home to authentic Texas barbecue. The scent of sauces and smoking was sure authentic. It went beyond the sense of smell; it could almost be felt. Even from the parking lot, the aroma was mouth watering. The restaurant’s atmosphere seemed authentic as well. Blue and white checkered tablecloths were draped over picnic tables in the center and over booths near the windows. Pictures of cowboys and longhorns graced wood-planked walls. We took a booth overlooked by a big portrait of John Wayne, depicted in a black eye patch and his trademark cowboy hat. I didn’t remember the Duke as a Texan. I thought he was from somewhere in the Northwest. Oregon, maybe? Don’t guess it matters.

Lee ordered an appetizer of onion rings. We nibbled on them as we waited for our dinners, engaging in easy small talk. We were comfortable with each other. As we talked, I was once again struck by the polished fineness of her features highlighted by eyes large and entrancing. Yep, I was in love.

Two large platters arrived transported by a perky young waitress. As she was leaving, Lee stabbed a piece of brisket and raised it toward her lips. She stopped about midway with the fork and returned it to her plate. Ever blunt, she looked straight into my eyes. When you leave, where are you going?

Not wanting to lie, I decided to go with the truth, or as much of it as possible. Camping, I said after a pause.

Camping? Where and for how long? And what in the hell for? When will you be back? She had the unbelieving look of a woman who had seen a piss ant eat a bale of hay.

I don’t know where or for how long, and I don’t honestly know if I’m coming back. If I do what I’m planning to do, it’s unlikely I’ll be back.

Lee pushed her plate away. She hadn’t taken a bite. Her look of disbelief went to the next level. Something about all this is very strange. I simply don’t understand ‘camping’ for an indefinite period of time. Where are you really going? The last sentence was spoken with a rising voice accompanied by a raised eyebrow.

Look, Lee, I’m about broke. There are small fee campsites in various places. I’ve got to be somewhere, and that’s all I can afford right now.

You could stay with me.

I exhaled and looked away. I need to be alone for awhile so I can figure out what to do. You know I’ve had no luck finding work. I just need some solitude for awhile.

Lee snickered. Her voice dripped with sarcasm as she said, Solitude? When you aren’t with me, you’re rattling around in that hell hole of an apartment. That sounds like a shitload of solitude to me. Lee went quiet. Her lips began to tremble. She dug in her purse and came out with cash. I don’t like evasiveness, and you’re evading like crazy. She pitched the money on the table between us. Here, pay the bill. I’m going to the restroom. I’ll meet you at the car.

Stunned, I stared at the money as she bolted from the table. I looked up to see her halfway across the big restaurant, half walking, half running toward the ladies room. My rampaging appetite was gone.

I paid the bill and went to the parking lot. I stood at Lee’s fierce looking Mustang for a five minute eternity. When she emerged, she walked to me and put her hands on my shoulders. I reached a conclusion.

What’s that? I held my breath.

Ben Kelly, you’re crazy. Not a little crazy, but one hundred percent slap ass nuts.

I looked at the ground. I guess I’d have to plead guilty to that charge, counselor.

I had a strong desire to hold her, but somehow I felt she didn’t want that right then.

Lee released her grip on my shoulders and we got in the car. Fat raindrops began to spank the windshield as we drove back into New Orleans. I decided to break the silence. Where are we going?

My place. Your place is crappy. It’s so dark in there we probably couldn’t even find the bed.

I relaxed. Anticipation made the ride more enjoyable.

Lee’s house reflected her status as a partner in a large law firm. She lived by herself, if you didn’t count the Siamese, in a sprawling Southern Colonial in the Garden District. The upkeep would require maids, but then Lee had maids.

We raced up the winding staircase to her bedroom. The lovemaking was intense. Slow, but intense. Lee liked to make love in total darkness. At first, I didn’t much cotton to that idea. I wanted to see as well as feel every aspect of her. But as I learned, the lack of light seemed to heighten the other senses. I could feel all of her. Skin to skin we became one together. Afterwards, we lay side by side for a long quiet time. I felt I could almost hear the wheels turning in her head. When she spoke her voice was husky. Do you love me?

No doubt about it. Got any other tough questions?

She sat up, flipped on the bedside lamp and fixed me with one of her patented golden eyed stares. Then why the hell are you leaving me?

I sat up too. Let me ask you. Do you love me?

Of course, she blurted.

But why, Lee? You’re beautiful. You’re loaded. You could nail down some rich attorney, no problem and…

I know too damn much about lawyers to be dumb enough to expect a valid relationship with one. Not only that, the limp lawyers in my office probably needed Viagra from the onset of puberty.

How do you know that?

Girl talk in the office. You think you men are the only ones who talk about sex?

Oh.

Ben, you’re head and shoulders above those guys.

Listen, I’m flat broke. In fact, I’m less than flat broke. My overdraft is more than double all the cash I have. And I’m twelve years older than you. I may need that Viagra stuff any minute now. Besides that, your mama doesn’t like me.

All that doesn’t matter. I know my feelings, Ben. Sometimes feelings mean more than logic.

I wasn’t sure how to respond, but I opened my big mouth and started talking anyway. Okay Lee, let’s give it a shot. You sure you want me to move in with you?

You betcha.

Then I guess I’ll do it then.

She pounced on me with a rib crunching bear hug.

November 20

We awoke together, still in the same position. It was the most comforting night’s sleep I could remember. Lee sat up and stretched. She looked at the clock. It’s ten o’clock; I got to get moving.

What’s the rush? You’re one of the bosses, aren’t you? I covered my mouth. My morning breath could out stink a wet goat.

It’s not that simple. I have people waiting to see me. They’ll be stacked up by the time I get there. Then I’ll have to break away as early as possible. I’ve got to get to Baton Rouge and start helping Mama with Thanksgiving dinner preparations. It’s a big deal to her. She puts on an elaborate spread for about sixty relatives. I’ll be there through Thursday. She paused and grimaced. I dread it. Drunken relatives and family tension rearing its ugly head.

She bolted from the bed into the bathroom. I felt relaxed. I knew she wouldn’t ask me to go with her to Baton Rouge. On my one trip to her parents’ house, her mother and I had been around each other less than a minute before a big argument broke out. Shortly after Hi, nice to finally meet you, she abruptly announced that Thomas Jefferson had written that black people were five-eighths human. She said that she was in total agreement with his assessment. I asked her how he came up with the five-eighths figure. She said it was scientific research and I then said something with the word ‘bullshit’ prominent in my comments. She drew back, took a hard look at me and declared that I was nigger-loving white trash. Things went downhill from there.

I tried to imagine the fallout from a marriage between Lee and me. Wonder what that would do for family tension?

The shower quit running and Lee came out wrapped in a couple of towels, one for the head and one for the body. She had a big eyed penetrating look that she cast in my direction. I’m curious about something.

I was still feeling relaxed, stretched out and sublimly comfortable on the great bed. It was one of those rare pieces of time where I felt at peace with myself. I said, Okay. Shoot.

She stopped toweling as her look became even more serious. Who are you planning to kill, Ben?

I jerked myself into a sitting position and discovered my mouth wouldn’t work. So much for peaceful feelings.

She draped the towels over a contraption that I took to be an exercise machine and broke the uneasy silence that filled the spacious bedroom. You talk in your sleep.

I fumbled for words before I said, I guess it was just a bad dream. This situation was giving a lie to what I thought had been a good night’s sleep.

It sounded very real and intense to me. You were gritting your teeth and almost shouting.

Listen, Lee, I can’t account for it. Just a bad dream as I said.

She looked at me as if I were the biggest liar in planetary history. She then disappeared into one of two gigantic closets, each about half the size of my entire apartment. She must have had a mirror and a blow dryer in there as I heard a tinny rumble. She came out fully dressed, looking sharp and ready to go. She gave me a hurried peck on the cheek. Thanks for last night.

Enjoyed it myself.

I’m heading out now.

No time to read the newspaper from cover to cover today?

No, dammit. Be here when I get back.

She left.

I left ten minutes later.

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Back at the apartment, I was coming down with the last box with hope it would somehow wedge into the back of the truck. That’s when Harold emerged from his door. I guess I startled him. His eyes were big with surprise enhancing his owlish aspect.

Whoa, Ben. Ya surprised me.

Sorry.

It seemed as if a whole minute passed before Harold said, Didja finish that book? I couldn’t put it down. Never could tell what was going to happen next, ya know?

I didn’t know what to say about the damn book. I thought everything in it was very predictable, even the midget’s farting. Here comes the midget—bet he farts again. Oh well.

I said, Yeah, it was a real thriller. I tried to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. I was lying to Harold about little things now. Pitiful, but then I guess I was being tactful.

Harold watched with his owl eyes as I detached the apartment key from the ring and slid it under the locked door. He eyed the cardboard box and a pair of faded jeans folded over my arm. He asked, That the last of it?

Yep, that’s it.

I’ll follow ya down to the truck and get those phone numbers from ya. Don’t guess ya need any help at this point. Ya could have asked and I would have been glad to help ya, ya know?

Very kind of you, We started down the twisting stairs.

I wrestled the box and jeans into the truck bed and secured the tailgate and the camper shell gate. Everything was loaded and would be dry in case of rain. Harold had gone to his car. He came back with a pen and a small pad. Here ya go, he said.

Insistent son of a gun. I paused with the pen and then scribbled Lee’s number and my daughter’s number in California. There you go, I said. I wasn’t sure why I gave him Lee’s number. Maybe it was an unconcious attempt to hold on to someone about to be lost forever.

He tore off a blank sheet, bent over the hood and wrote something. He handed me the piece of paper. That’s my number.

But, Harold, I know your number.

Put it in ya wallet in case you forget.

Okay.

Harold studied the ground for a second. Listen, I got to go. Dialysis treatment. He stepped forward and hugged me. Out of reflex, I hugged him back. Without another word, he turned and walked to his car.

I stood open mouthed. I managed to wave as Harold pulled away. I was going to miss him—and New Awyens for that matter.

TWO

I got into the truck and eased away. I turned off my street just as I saw a police car pull in front of my former residence. I didn’t know if he was looking for me or not. Maybe I’d left in the nick of time. All doubt was removed when a tow truck whipped in behind the cop car.

I drove past City Park on Wisner Boulevard. It was an incredibly pretty place. I thought about going to a coffee shop a few blocks from where I used to live. They had an unbelievable latte and the cinnamon rolls actually did melt in your mouth. Instead, I sped up toward I-610. I had a desire to linger, but the need to get moving was far stronger. Under the circumstances, hanging around in my old neighborhood with a hot truck would testify to my lack of sanity. Then again, running off into the woods probably didn’t speak of good mental balance either.

The gas gauge showed a quarter tank. At an Exxon on Robert E. Lee, I pulled up to a pump, went in and prepaid fifteen dollars’ worth.

While pumping the gas, I remembered seeing one of those latte machines in the store. I went back for a small mocha. On the way out, I saw a man sitting with his back resting against the side of the store. He appeared to be studying the pavement in front of him. I hadn’t noticed him earlier.

A middle aged African-American woman, dressed in official office attire, approached the man. She took out a pocketbook, extracted a dollar and offered it to him. He took the bill, nodded and put it in the chest pocket of a heavy but frayed red and white checkered shirt. I was about ten feet away when he fixed me with an unblinking stare. His posture, demeanor or something elicited my sympathy, so I decided to contribute to his cause. As I approached, his eyes stayed locked on my face. The eyes didn’t seem to fit. Lines and cracks mindful of a street map radiated in all directions. Some disappeared into a ragged beard. Others merged into uncombed hair that resembled a windblown nest. The eyes contrasted with everything else about him. They were piercing blue and alert.

A tiny whirlwind kicked up between us. Small tatters of paper were snatched up from the concrete and were spinning cyclone fashion in the air. The little whirling phenomenon was picking up more debris as it began to spin mere inches from the man’s face. He ignored it. His eyes were fixed on me. I figured what the hell, if he could ignore this little freak of nature, so could I.

I withdrew one of my few dollars and held it out. He took it. I said, It isn’t much. I don’t have much. I hope it helps.

He said nothing and maintained his even gaze. I wondered if maybe the guy was deaf. I backed away a step but still under his hard stare. As soon as I moved, the whirlwind suddenly collapsed in on itself. A small scattering of rubble remained in its stead. A cold feeling of unease swept over me. A shadow hurrying across the mind. There was the sense of muffled knocking at a door into my consciousness. I concentrated hard, trying to open the door. Something