Nalapazoo: A Novel

By Troy Patoine

What if fate had a design, a plan for certain people, to put forth in motion events that could change the world? What if one person could make a difference but didnt know it yet? What if imaginary friends were real?

In the fall of 1957, little Ana Gromsnave mourned the loss of her mother and, during that period in her life, became acquainted with a visitor from her closet by the name of Nalapazoo, who just might answer some of those questionsquestions that could have an impact on Ana and those around her for the rest of their lives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 17, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524624989

Troy Patoine

Troy Patoine grew up in New Hampshire and is a graduate of Keene State College. He is the author of Red Moon, a finalist for science fiction book of the year for both ForeWord Magazine and USA Book News. He lives in New Hampshire with his fiancée, Teressa, and their Australian Shepherds, Trixie and Copper. His son, Tristram, lives at home when not at College. In this, his second novel, Troy tells the story of a girl who wandered off the path that Fate had in store for her and tries to get back on track with the help of a mysterious girl. The author is always working on a new novel.

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AuthorHouse™

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, institutions, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to certain locales or actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

© 2016 Troy Patoine. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse    08/16/2016

ISBN: 978-1-5246-2499-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-2497-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-2498-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016913469

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Author’s Note

Beforeword

Prologue

Friday

Saturday

Sunday

Monday

Tuesday

Wednesday

Thursday

Epilogue

Afterword

Acknowledgements

I would like to acknowledge the following people for their assistance in this endeavor:

Teressa Corson, who reviewed this story and gave technical support when needed, who is always supportive in my endeavors, not only as an author, but in everything else I take on.

Richard Dinovio, who reviewed and was a consultant for some of the material in this story, gave me a fresh outlook on certain aspects of this story that were unfamiliar to me.

Sarah Howson, who reviewed and was a consultant, gave me insight into some of the characters mentioned in this story.

Special thanks to my editors: Cindy Beatty and Michael G. Dowding at Proof Positive Papers.

As always, to The Easton Press Company whose books have given me a broader view in the many writing styles throughout history, fueled my imagination, and have inspired me to continue this journey I have been on since the turn of the century.

From Authorhouse: Schenker De Leon, Allen Endrina, Danica Toledo, Edward Ponce, and Karen Stansberry.

Art Swenson, for the wonderful photograph.

Jeffrey Keen, i310 Media Group.

Jennifer Szunko, Foreword Magazine.

Tom Lowe and Roberta Langis from the Grand Lodge of New Hampshire Free and Accepted Masons.

Kathleen Willimas, Keene State College.

Dedication

This novel is dedicated to my two children, Brittany and Tristram, and my grandchild, Travis Jr., in hopes that they never lose sight of something that, in my opinion, is essential for adults: the ability to dream; because our ability to dream, in some cases, can influence the choices we make in life, which can have an impact on those around us.

In addition to the above mentioned, I dedicate this novel to Charlie, the best imaginary friend one could have as a child.

Author’s Note

Adults cope with stress in many different ways. For children, sometimes, it can be a little different. Children often will have a fit, or throw a temper tantrum, withdraw, bottle things up, confide in an adult or friend. Sometimes, though, they turn to an imaginary friend.

Two of the locations used in this story, Kingsly, Maine, and Mirage, California, you will not find on any map. That is not to say that they do not exist. On the contrary; people who live in either location or venture to these locations know all too well that they do, in fact, exist. It’s all relative, you see. For those who can truly dream, any place, good or bad, exists.

Although my book is intended mainly for the entertainment of boys and girls, I hope it will not be shunned by men and women on that account, for part of my plan has been to try to pleasantly remind adults of what they once were themselves, and of how they felt and thought and talked, and what queer enterprises they sometimes engaged in. – Mark Twain

Ah, how fair a thing is freedom! – Richard Wagner, Siegfried of the Gods

There is no armour against fate. – William Hammond, What Masonry Means

Beforeword

First and foremost, I am usually too busy to take a timeout from my never-ending schedule to indulge in storytelling. As a matter of fact, I am not even sure if I have ever told a story in all of my existence. To the best of my knowledge, I’ve been around for a very, very long time. Even so, it is also possible that I have simply forgotten.

Anyway, this story, on the surface, is not that much different from other stories you may have heard or read—regarding humans, that is. Now, there is more to this story than the entertainment you may experience from the plot or from the characters involved. Despite the fact that humans have the unique ability to reason with each other (which they seldom do), they also possess, but ultimately give up after childhood, their imagination, which is why we have to sometimes interfere with the younger ones.

Disastrous and devastating this has always been for me to bear witness to. Evincing, once again, these emotions in me is the young lady this story is based on: Ana Gromsnave. She will have an extraordinary experience—not once but twice, which she, at first, will not even be aware of like most other humans who share similar experiences and are never aware of it. Troy Patoine will dictate the story for me; like I said before, I am not very experienced in storytelling and, given the audience, which is most likely human, I dictated it to Mr. Patoine the best that I could, which in turn will be delivered in a manner that will be satisfying, entertaining and, most importantly, educational. In case you are wondering who I am…well…it is really not necessary for you to know that at this time. Not yet, anyway, but, by the end of the story, you will not only know me, but accept and embrace me. You really don’t have much choice in the matter.

Mr. Patoine, if you will….

Prologue

Letter from Wellesley Keene

May 1983 (Now)

"Hey, sweets. I hope the package I sent along with this letter arrived in one piece. I’ve had it in my possession for some time now, and thought it was about time that you take it. I don’t know why I’ve decided to do this now; I could have done it many years ago. Maybe I thought you weren’t ready. If you’re wondering why I had it, that’s a story for another time, perhaps when I see you again. There’s more I’d like to discuss with you, but not on paper. Besides, at my age it hurts to write for extended periods of time, and if I don’t have to do it, I don’t. I guess I’m getting stubborn in my old age.

By the way, if you get a chance, return some of my calls. I still get your Christmas and birthday cards; and I do appreciate that very much. Still, it would be nice to talk to you on occasion. I hope everything is going better with you and Ray. I guess I just worry about you.

Since I haven’t heard from you, you’re probably wondering how I’m doing. I’m okay. Thanks for asking. I’m actually planning on finding new tenants for one half of the duplex. It still looks the same with some modifications. Got to keep up with the times, you know. And, since I am the landlord, the place keeps me busy. I just hope I can find someone who wants to rent it. I, of course, still live across the street. The people who live on the left side have been late with their payments, and actually owe a couple months’ rent. I hate to get rid of them but if they don’t pay…. As far as the right side goes, there is a guy who writes books—not too famous but earns a good enough living and pays on time. So I really can’t complain.

Anyway, I hope all is well. I also hope to hear from you sometime soon, like before I die—just teasing. Take care, sweets. And take care of that package. It’s about time it belonged to you. Oh, and before I forget, I enclosed a letter with the package that I thought you should have. The letter is from your dad. I hope you can forgive me for not giving it to you years ago; I had misplaced it during the process of moving—horrible excuse, I know. Hope to hear from you.

Love, Uncle Wellesley"

Kingsly, Maine

Autumn, 1957 (Then)

The wind blew cold and ferociously with little remorse at Old Solomon’s Cemetery in Kingsly, Maine. Leaves whipped through the air as a not-so-subtle reminder to the few people who attended the funeral of Carol Gromsnave that the bright, warm days of summer were gone and an unforgiving winter was just around the corner.

Ana Gromsnave held the hand of her father, Carl, as he stood by her side shivering. He was doing his best to keep his composure in front of not only Ana, but the few other friends who had shown up on this bitter, cold day to pay their final respects to his beloved wife. The woman he would never get the chance to live out his days with and the loving mother who wouldn’t be there to help guide their daughter down the uncertain road that lie ahead.

The only noises that could be heard were the bellowing of the wind, a few sniffles here and there, a squawk from a black crow that had just flown over the heads of the mourners that instantly caught the attention of Ana, and words of comfort coming from Father Groton as he stood undeterred with his back to the relentless wind that seemed to be heckling his sermon. Carl took a moment to look down at his daughter who was standing on his right side, her attention now set fixedly again on the coffin that held the remains of her mother she had known for only a tad more than four years. A little moisture had formed in her eyes; Carl could not decide if it was from sadness or the sting of the wind. Regardless, he was very proud of her that day. She was his little girl—always had been. He knew that they would both have to be even stronger now for each of them.

He loved his daughter—more than anything; however, he had not always been that great at communicating with her. He did, however, have a talent at making her laugh at certain times, telling her jokes, mostly age-appropriate, from time to time, holding her attention for hours when he was busy working on a painting for a paying customer. Carl was an artist—better than fair, and probably the only one people could remember in recent memory who had ever hailed from Kingsly or anywhere else in the region. Some thought great and, with most artists, time usually answered all assumptions regarding greatness.

The mourners quietly followed Carl and his daughter away from the grave as they slowly made their way through the front gates of the cemetery to their cars. Carl helped his daughter get into the head limousine. As Carl was getting into the limousine, with the aid of the limo driver, Ana frantically tugged on his jacket.

Daddy, Daddy, look! Look! Look!

What, honey, what? said her father, a trifle annoyed. She then pointed in the direction of her mother’s gravestone.

On Mommy’s stone…look! Her father quickly looked in the direction that they had just come from, and on the gravestone was a great horned owl. Its eyes were bright yellow, which could be seen even from the distance that separated the limo from the grave; it had large ear tufts and a brown-grayish body. Its length was hard to determine from the distance Carl was from the bird of prey, but it had to be almost two feet in length. What’s it doing on Mommy’s stone, Daddy? Carl looked at the bird in awe.

I don’t know. I …. Just as he was about to come up with some sort of concocted explanation, one of the mourners passed right in front of the owl and stopped momentarily. It was a young woman—early 20s, with strawberry-blonde hair tucked firmly under a bonnet. The woman turned her head slowly toward the limo’s direction until her eyes finally met Carl’s. She was wearing cat-eye eye glasses that looked as if they were used less for visual necessity and more to be incognito. He could only guess to himself why she looked so eerily familiar. Where had he seen her before? In town, maybe—no, the town was too small. He would have known her if she lived in Kingsly. Maybe he didn’t want to remember.

Though she was relatively far away, he could make out her eyes, nose, mouth, even the expression on her face that seemed to offer comfort. Then she smiled—compassionately. It was as though she understood what he was going through. This was perplexing. How could a complete stranger know what he was going through? For a brief moment he even wondered to himself if he had known her—she did look somewhat familiar. For a brief moment, she almost resembled his departed wife, when she was a little younger. He convinced himself that he didn’t know her—that it was unimportant to have known or even remember her—if, that was, he ever did know her. He rubbed his eyes for just a moment to clear them. When his eyes adjusted, he looked for her again but to no avail. She was gone. She was never there. I’m just seeing things. Where she had been standing, a crow flew by with the speed of the wind up into an evergreen not too far from the grave of his wife. The owl, he noticed, was gone also.

Daddy, the man wants to know if it’s okay to go. Was she ever even there? Daddy…?

He quickly came out of his momentary trance. Hmm…. He looked in the direction of his daughter who was pointing to the limo driver in the front seat. Oh. Sorry ’bout that. Have to ’scuse me—with everything going on.

Not a problem, sir, the driver said empathetically. I understand. Shall we go? Seems like everyone understands…even those I’m imagining, he thought.

He looked one more time in the direction of his wife’s headstone. He was reluctant at first—maybe even scared. When he looked, both the owl and the mysterious girl were still absent. Just seeing things, he thought. Yep…stretch her out.

As the limousine and cars carried the mourners away, a lone creature worked tirelessly on the front gate that guarded Old Solomon’s Cemetery. It was a spider. It paused, quietly regarded the departing vehicles for a moment, looked toward the grave of Carol Gromsnave, and went back to work on the masterpiece it was spinning.

Friday

Mirage, California

May 1983 (Now)

The weather was extremely warm for this time of year. Just 20 miles south of Hollywood, Mirage was fairly warm year ’round. Mirage wasn’t as flashy or as populated as Hollywood—on the contrary: Mirage was legally a city, but it could have easily passed for an oversized town. The people who lived there were mostly middle-class. Most commuted to Hollywood to work, and at the end of the day, found their way back to the comfort and serenity of Mirage.

It was a beautiful morning, and the traffic exiting the city onto the freeway was as torturous and painful as any other morning for the regular commuters. Haste, efficiency, and common courtesy had no relevance on mornings like this when one made the inevitable trek each day toward their 9-to-5 destinations.

Ana Gromsnave often wondered what the destinations were for the few commuters not going to work, the ones who could be possibly getting away by escaping the proverbial road that represented continuous monotony for the others who traveled each weekday morning, Monday through Friday. She also wondered if someday she, too, would continue down this road without hitting the exit to Hollywood, never to return, to venture eastward to start a new life that could and would be anything but continuous monotony…and sadness…to experience something different—something inspiring. For most, this was the hardest part of the day—the moment that life began for these sad souls. For Ana, she wanted to believe the freeway was just a minor detour and slight inconvenience. The first exit that came up would bring her toward her daily destination: Mirage Community College.

Unfortunately, there was no other way to get to the college from where she lived. She had to take the freeway. Because of the lack of time she actually spent driving on the freeway, she was usually in a good mood. Today was different, though. Today was the anniversary of the death of someone very close to her, someone she tried years ago to forget but, with subtle reminders over the years, ultimately could not. One such reminder, a tiny flask, was perfectly concealed snugly under some tissues in her car’s glove compartment. It was a reminder that she would like to quit completely, and although she had come a long way in three years, she had not yet found the courage to eliminate certain temptations. Ana was content with her job, but that wasn’t always the case. She was either teaching, grading work, or dealing with a boyfriend she rented a house with who, like her, was also an alcoholic. And she was about to hit her midlife crisis years before some would consider such a thing due.

When she arrived at work and pulled into her reserved parking spot that she had enjoyed for the last three years, students were already coming to and from their respective classes. She wasn’t late—not this time, anyway. However, Dr. Steven T. Dualface, dean of the college, stood at the entrance of the art department. As he stood there with his morning coffee in both hands, he made a point to greet all the students who walked by. Ana had been spoken to on several occasions regarding her punctuality, but it had been a while since her last friendly lecture with the dean.

As she got out of her car, briefcase in one hand, a decaffeinated coffee in the other, her strawberry-blonde, shoulder-length hair blowing in her eyes, she found it quite challenging to shut the car door with her right leg as she fumbled with her car keys. A young male student, probably 19 or 20, saw her struggle and quickly came to assist her. After thanking him and walking toward the art department, while greeting some of the students walking by, she couldn’t help but notice that Dr. Dualface was keeping her in close observation. Some might have considered this behavior paranoia. However, Ana had been relatively sober for three years, and although her track record was not horrible, it was still less than par for the course in