Lost: A Novel

By Michael Sandusky

A sabotaged Pan Am flying boat crashes en route from Los Angeles to Hong Kong in 1936. It is given up for lost. However, seven passengers survive a watery death. The passenger list includes a movie star actress, society matron, newspaper reporter, Roosevelt cabinet member, African huntress, Sikh chauffeur, and a Princeton-trained lawyer by the name of Michelangelo Barrier. Without food and only the clothes falling off their backs, they stumble upon a terrible secret. Who is going to believe such an account? Who will take the word of presumed dead passengers in a dark, murky lost world?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 14, 2018
• ISBN: 9781984572028

Michael Sandusky

Michael Sandusky is the quintessential story-telling romantic. His fifty years of writing novels, short stories, poetry, self-help books and newspaper columns have been read and enjoyed the world over. He loves deep-sea fishing, traveling to exotic locales, cooking and public speaking relating thrilling, funny and poignant stories about his adventures, narrow escapes and interpersonal relationships. He still believes that the best stories cannot be made up, but come from actual human experience. He can be reached at [e-mail]

Book preview

Copyright © 2019 by Michael Sandusky.

ISBN:                Softcover                    978-1-9845-7201-1

                          eBook                          978-1-9845-7202-8

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Author Photo by: Don C. Johnson

Rev. date: 12/13/2018

Xlibris

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

788979

CONTENTS

Introduction

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Epilog

To Susan, my only daughter and the mother

of my grandchildren.

With joy, I remember reading together all those years when we were traveling the country.

I know you will do the same for your beautiful girls. This is surely a worthwhile book to include in their journeys.

INTRODUCTION

I have these ideas that permeate my mind. They cloud my brain and blind my eyes sometimes. They are ideas for short stories, novels and other books that need to be written, but in reality, most will fall by the wayside by the time that I can’t type or see or even sit for a long while in a chair. I can see a pattern though. They seem to revolve around romance and adventure. Understandably, that’s me on both counts. I’ve traveled all over the world, experienced so many things, and met so many fascinating people! I shared some of these adventures in one of my earlier books, Wounded Wanderer. I added romance to the adventure in I Rode the Wings of the Dawn to the Farthest Oceans.

I’m not a Romance novelist. However, I am a romantic, which encompasses more than kissing and physical love. It involves our view of life itself, which while beautiful, can be complicated at times. Yes, I watch Hallmark movies, especially at Christmas time. I’ve been encouraged to write for them. However, recently I dated a woman for the first time, who when it came time to say, good night, informed me that she didn’t kiss on the first date, because she was a Hallmark girl. Hey! I’m running out of time here! Who knows? I might be dead by the time that you read this book!

I went into the future in Out of Time. In this volume, Lost, we’re going back in time to 1923 and eventually ending in 1936. Our Princeton-trained lawyer, Michelangelo Barrier develops a friendship with a man who is a Sikh. He finds himself caught up along with everyone else in a cataclysmic financial mess called a depression.

The time from 1929 to 1941 was a difficult time for most Americans and nearly everyone else in the world. The unemployment rate in America was 25% at one time. Companies failed and suicides were many. Even if one was an attorney, as our hero Michelangelo is, it was difficult to collect if there was no money to pay.

People escaped their troubles for a short while by going to the movies and seeing Shirley Temple, Gone with the Wind and the Wizard of Oz. Baseball was king and sleek streamlined cars were promised for the future. Along came Pan Am and their Clippers. I saw their hanger in Coconut Grove Florida, when I was there last. These were big flying boats as they were called. They flew to South America and then began flying to the Orient.

It’s on one of these big pontooned flying boats that I want to save you a seat. Please find one and seat yourself in this story. Oh, and you will not forget your ride in the Duesenberg.

CHAPTER ONE

T HE TURTLE-CHINNED, RED-FACED taxi-driver huffed like a steam engine, while Raj and I helped him lower the steamer trunks to the ground. His forehead drew a bead of sweat in the brisk November air. I gave him four dollars for the ride from the train station in Oakland and for the display of muscle, albeit somewhat faded glory. It was generous for times like these, even for a taxi driver.

You here for the Clipper?

I held Raj back, this time, reminding him that he was no longer a valet. The porter was certainly able to maneuver the luggage himself.

The Naval base at Alameda was the home of the Clipper, recently elevated to admirable status by its successful flights to Manila and Hong Kong. We followed the porter around the tin-sided building and then another, before we saw the sleek beauty. The man knew nothing of my mesmerized and statuesque halt as he lumbered on to the plane. Its gleaming hull sparkled with iridescence in the California sun.

I’m sure that my mouth hung open for a bit imagining the excitement and profound experience that I was about to enjoy. My light-headedness buoyed me as though ambrosia was coursing through my veins.

I turned around and looked at Raj.

What’s the matter?

I don’t know. I’m thinking maybe we better not go.

You travel all the way across the country and now you change your mind?

Well, how do we know that thing is safe?

Raj, you’ve crossed the ocean before and….

That was on a boat.

Well, this is a boat. It’s a flying boat, they call it. Don’t worry. I’m sure they’ve got the bugs out of it.

It has bugs? What kinds of bugs?

That’s just an expression for problems and things that break and need fixing. It’s not talking about insects.

He still looked dubious. I took his arm and pulled him along with me towards the floating plane. Actually, it was close to a drag, but I had to show courage. I had flown on some domestic airlines, but he had never experienced the thrill of air travel.

We made our way into the small ticket office where our luggage was still sitting on the cart. A woman stood at the desk with a blue Pan Am cap attached to her hair by bobby pins. Her skin glowed like a pale rose and her eyes shown with an unlikely hazel.

You must be Mr. Barrier!

Yes.

I presented our tickets, while listening to the plastic radio on the shelf behind her.

Who’s playing?

California and Stanford.

Do you know if Princeton won today?

Who?

Princeton…you know, like back east in New Jersey?

Oh! No. You’re both Princeton fans? Is he? I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone like him before.

No, he doesn’t like football, I said while turning to look at the bearded and turbaned man behind me. He was lost to the world.

CHAPTER TWO

R AJ DIDN’T REALLY share our enthusiasm about football. We learned that the night that was forever etched into our memories. It was not the night that we beat Harvard, but as the night that Beatrice and I were stranded halfway between Princeton and Atlantic City. I say that as a precursor to why it really was such an indelible impression, at least in his and my life.

That was the beginning of a unique friendship.

I was embarrassed enough as it was to have run out of gas.

Yeah right, she smiled. The old ‘out of gas routine.’

No, really. Look at the gauge, ‘no gas.’

She looked alarmed and I felt like an idiot for not having planned more carefully. It wasn’t that I was broke. I was comfortable with my job as an intern with a law firm in Princeton. Tubbs, Priori and Johnson saw possibilities with me after my graduation from their alma mater itself - Princeton.

I had remembered to bring jackets for the fall weather descending upon New Jersey and its many spectrum collage of autumn colors. So if I could remember to dress warm, why couldn’t I remember to stay on top of the gasoline situation?

OK. I can shift the blame to athletic excitement mixed a little with the possibilities of love.

Well, I’m going to have to walk for gas.

You’re serious!

Yeah, I am.

There’s no gas stations between here and Atlantic City!

We both knew that. Every red-blooded guy and flapper-girlfriend knew that. When we grew bored with the jazz clubs and hangouts and any speakeasy we could find in Princeton or Philadelphia…well, we headed for the shore. This was not my first outing with Beatrice. I had lost count of the times we had been to a football game, dance or hangout where there was liquor. She was a stone in the mosaic of my life. A beautiful. sparkling one, but a stone all the same, not the entire picture.

I had to be courageous. I had to do something. We just couldn’t sit there. Occasionally a car would come along, but not many of them.

Well, I’m coming with you.

Of course! You’ll be safe with me. That was the least bit of security I could offer, even though I had failed to get us to the shore safely. While at least three cars had passed us while we were sitting in the Jordan, certainly none was passing us now as we walked down the side of the road. There was a moon, but no hint of a street lamp out here in what I would call the wilderness. It was a good place for a woman to be scared as well as a man who was not of brave lineage.

She pressed against me as we walked, breath presenting itself in steam. I could see that autumn had already painted the fallen leaves with frost. Surely, a car must come along soon.

Ten minutes passed before I heard a rumble behind us. I turned and held out my thumb. Thank God, it was slowing down. The headlights were enormous so I figured it was a large car. Beatrice squealed with delight as it rolled to a stop beside us. I opened the door to see a man wearing white headgear. It wasn’t a hat, but something else. He was dark-skinned and sported a beard.

Can you give us a lift to a gas station?

Yes, get in. There is not one until we get close to the shore.

I detected a hint of a British accent.

Are you from England? asked Beatrice.

No. I am from India. The Punjab to be precise.

I was now lost in thought at the lighted instruments on the dashboard. This boyishness came over me as though I was wearing short pants again.

We were riding in a Duesenberg. There were a number of rich fellows on campus, but none that owned a car as magnificent as this. I wondered how this man from India could afford such a behemoth. Only movie stars and kings rode in such magnificence. I nudged my elbow into Beatrice’s side. This is a Duesenberg, I whispered.

It is? How do you know?

I’m reading the emblem on the dashboard.

I didn’t expect her to fully appreciate it as much as I did. She didn’t even think much of my Jordan Playboy. Dad bought it for me my first year of school. It was a moderate priced roadster and not really fancy like a Stutz or a Mercer. I hadn’t wanted it for its automobiliality. I was spellbound by this ad that I saw.

Somewhere west of Laramie, there’s a bronco-busting, steer-roping girl who knows what I’m talking about. She can tell what a sassy pony, that’s a cross between greased lightning and the place where it hits, can do with eleven hundred pounds of steel and action when he’s going high, wide and handsome.

It really had nothing to do with the car, but it made me want to visit Wyoming and drive fast and…actually I wasn’t even wanting the girl who was racing the car on her pony. Well, OK, she did rather intrigue me as being a free spirit, car-racing female who probably knew the nobility of a Duesenberg.

We sat there, mesmerized as the big machine picked up speed. I looked at the speedometer glaring sixty-five miles per hour. I could not remember ever going that fast. It was almost frightening. Beatrice grabbed my arm and held tight. I was afraid to say anything for fear of distracting the driver and causing an accident. At length, after feeling somewhat assured that he actually knew what he was doing, I ventured:

Your car is very nice.

Oh, this is not my car! I’m only the driver! Ha-ha. It’s Mr. Sheffield’s car.

Well, when you see him again, let him know that I liked his car very much!

There was silence for a short bit. Then I heard the window behind me lowering. I think that it was actually a signal.

Uh, well actually you may tell him yourself. He’s sitting in the back seat.

Up until this time, I had been unaware of any back seat in the entire car. My delight at being picked up and then the dazzling display of dashboard light and power as well as the sound of the engine had captured my thoughts and put blinders upon my eyes.

We both turned around to see a shadowy figure sitting so far back that we couldn’t even determine his face.

Hello Mr. Sheffield, I said, wondering if my words could be heard without a megaphone.

I saw a white-gloved hand go up that, I assumed was a salute or acknowledgment that my salutation had been noted.

We didn’t say anything else, but assumed that the driver was just that - a driver. At most, he was a chauffeur. We were dropped off at a filling station close to Egg Harbor where we got our gas and then, with another ride, made our way back to the Jordan.

CHAPTER THREE

T HE DRIVER’S NAME, as we found out later, was Rajmund Naowarat Gobind Singh. He lived on Manhattan and was employed by Mr. Sheffield as a valet and chauffeur. Mr. Sheffield was from England and spent half of his time in the United States and the other half in London. That was the extent of what we learned on that first trip.

For some reason the Sikh liked us. I didn’t know he was a Sikh until much later. Beatrice and I had married and were honeymooning in New York City in 1927. He had told us to look him up when we were in the city.

So I did.

His address was a penthouse on Fifth Avenue. Thinking that I might be able to cruise the island in a Duesenburg, albeit in exchange for a few bottles of good rum, I showed up at his doorstep.

I cannot believe that you stopped to see me!

Well, we were on the avenue and remembered that you lived here so thought we’d stop by to say hello. I tried to sound convincing as well as innocent.

Well, of course! Come in, Come in!

He led us to a small room, completely unattached to any great, portly, obscene residence overlooking Central Park.

The furnishings in his room consisted of a bed, chair, table and a radio in a corner. There was a kitchen cabinet with a hotplate and ice-box on one end and a bathroom on the other end. There was no window. It was about the size of my dorm room that I had occupied when I was at Princeton.

And you are married now! He exclaimed, seeing the ring on Beatrice’s finger. She held it up with pride.

I pulled out two bottles of good rum and suggested that he give it to his master. Oh, but he shall love having such good liquor. It is hard to find, you know! How is it that you are able to come across such fine spirit?

I wasn’t at liberty to divulge any secrets just then. Nor was the car available that evening. His master was not one to be bought. In fact, he had a dismal view of the country in which he resided half of the year. In spite of the fact that Wall Street had made him rich, he considered us as, and this is the way that our Indian friend quoted him: A nation that has less than a thousand years of culture to look back on. It has no myths, no superstitions, no collective memories, values or sense of shame. It has nothing but pseudo-Christian morals, deviant capitalism, an amoral look at the last war and rampant immoral sexual preoccupation as well as an overwhelming notion of greediness.

Ok.

Would you like to join us for something to eat?

It was our first taste of Indian food…without liquor. We learned a lot about our friend that evening. He was from the Punjab and was a Sikh. It was a religion that believed in one god. They were warriors and apparently were highly respected by the British. They did not like the Hindus, but hated the Mohammedans even more. He was a valet for his master, having been sent to England with the family’s blessings to seek his fortune. He lived in England half of the time and in New York the other half. His actual name was so long that it would have shut a spelling bee down, much to the dismay of all the contestants. As a result I decided to just call him Raj. He liked that.

Raj had a wife and two small children waiting for him to save his money and return home. That was his objective.

We saw Raj occasionally, even after I entered law practice full time. He was unassuming, easy to talk with and didn’t expect anything. We finally realized that he was lonely and knew only a few other Indians in the city. They considered him an outsider since he worked for a rich man. His position was easy compared to the toil that they were faced with every day. I guess he thought of us in a similar way.

Our next meeting was in the summer. In spite of heat and humidity, we decided to walk to a place on 42nd street with which I was familiar. They were one of my customers. We should have known better to think we could go for a stroll. The air was throbbing, salty and wet with exhaust. You could smell the wetness of perspiration. Beatrice urged me to hail a cab, so I did. Then, I began to think of my foolish, if not reckless actions of inviting a teetotaler to a booze joint.

Driver, there’s a place uptown called ‘Philips.’ Do you know it?

He did. It was a legit café with American food. However, after Beatrice and I had ordered steaks, I was biting my tongue again, thinking he wouldn’t like this place either since he didn’t eat meat.

You’re ordering steak? You don’t have to do that, just to be nice to us, I said, in surprise.

Nice to you? I’m hungry!

I thought that you couldn’t eat meat?

It’s Hindus that can’t eat meat, he laughed. Occasionally, one of their cows would disappear, he winked. Just disappear!

One of these days, maybe we can go to…how do you say, ‘speak-easy?’

They serve liquor there, you know.

Yes, I cannot get into one. I guess because they think I look funny.

You drink? asked Beatrice.

Of course! Oh, you thought that I didn’t partake of alcohol! It’s Moslems who can’t drink.

I think that he saw our perplexity.

You are confused because of the differences between Sikh, Moslem and Hindu. No?

Well, if you can drink, I will get you a bottle of your own.

When we exited the small eatery, it was still blistering hot. The sun, across the Hudson, was melting into the horizon like a scoop of orange sherbet. With no taxis to be seen, we decided to walk around the corner to see if, perchance, there were more of them on a two-way street. We didn’t get far.

Gimme your money.

A wolf-faced man blocked our way. He was holding a small handgun.

I’m afraid that I carry most of the money, Michelangelo, said Raj.

I had no idea as to what he was talking about. I was even more perturbed that he used my given name instead of Mike as he always called me. I hated my given name. I might as well have been born in the Sistine Chapel for all the comments that I received because of it.

He reached inside his coat pocket and then, in one fell swoop, drew out a knife and cut the man’s arm off. It fell to the ground, the hand still holding the gun. It was like a dream. All Beatrice and I saw was an arm lying on the ground gushing blood. The wolf-faced man stood there, wondering why his arm and hand, still holding a gun were lying on the ground between all of us.

Then, everything became clear. It was the thief’s scream of pain and Beatrice’s scream of terror that woke us all up. I looked at the man’s arm spewing the life-source onto the ground, then at Raj, who was holding a curved knife. Where did that come from?

The man crumpled to the ground, his head drooping like an old man napping in his seat. His scream was now silent, but Beatrice was still in hysterics.

Come on! I shouted. We’ve got to get out of here twenty-three skidoo! I grabbed Raj’ and her hands and started running back around the corner, where stood a taxi at the entrance of ‘Philips.’

A young couple was just about to get in to the cab, when I pushed them aside.

She’s having a baby! Sorry! Fifth Avenue please!

The driver took off wondering if he would make it in time. He was five blocks away from the incident when he said, Uh, I don’t know of any hospitals on Fifth Avenue.

Uh, just take us home, I said. We’ll just have the baby at home. He was obviously confused when he left the curb in front of Raj’s building.

Beatrice was still in shock when we walked into Raj’s small room. He pushed her gently down onto his bed, while I placed a cool damp towel upon her forehead.

Raj! Where did you get that knife?

I always carry a knife. We must be ready at any time.

That doesn’t make sense. The war was over almost ten years ago.

Not for Sikhs. We are a maligned people and a minority in my Indian home. We must be ready to fight for our lives at any time.

What are we doing in this small room? Beatrice spoke, almost in a whisper. How did we get here?

You’re having a baby.

She looked all around with a thoroughly confused stare.

Did we do it on this bed?

No.

Wait! I’m having a baby? Oh joy!

No, no dear. That….

I am so happy!

It was then that I wondered if it would be better to let her believe that since it took her mind off the bloody act that she had witnessed. However, what would she feel like if, later on, she felt as though she had been betrayed?

I confessed the truth to her.

It was that day that I gained a great appreciation for our new friend. I was guilty of believing that I had the upper hand in this relationship. After all, I was the civilized one, a lawyer who ran a side business. I was not someone’s valet.

However, I had not saved someone’s life and didn’t carry a weapon. I looked upon Raj, now, as a one-man war of nerves with a ferocious black beard, a leonine physique and most likely a love of battle. With our lives now having been rescued, it was heavy upon me to only admit to myself that he carried an assortment of knives and daggers on his person. As far as I was concerned, he would always, if the need rose, rush into the battle with a blood-curdling war cry and with his long hair flying.

CHAPTER FOUR

L ESS THAN A year later, Beatrice died.

I was told that it was the black lung, but I blamed it on the cigarettes. We were like all the rest of our generation right after the war. The conflict had stolen our fine young men as well as our faith in humanity and its future. Skepticism was forced upon us. History, hope, and tradition that we were headed into some millennial kingdom were doused like a kitten in a burlap bag in a pond and with the same results. That’s one reason that we had waited so long to marry. We had to reconcile ourselves to the possibility that yes, there could be a future. However, until we came to that conclusion, there was liquor to keep us from thinking of it. While it was prohibited, the intoxicant could be found. An ocean’s worth was available and along with it all the other vices including tobacco. Given that, Beatrice and I found plenty of rope with which to hang ourselves.

I resolved to give up the nasty habit during the last two months of her life. I replaced it with drink. I didn’t drink as a substitute, but as a comfort. I probably drank up many of my own profits. I don’t know. I can’t remember.

Raj came over a number of times to sit with me. The alcohol provided the fog that I needed to deal with her death. It fit comfortably and snugly over my brain and kept me from thinking, but I wanted more than that.

I didn’t want to feel.

Raj was sympathetic for a long time. He was a good and able comforter, not chastising me for the way I was drowning myself. Then one day he ceased being a comforter.

My friend, I am not going to go along with your party anymore.

Huh?

She’s gone and there’s nothing you can do about it.

I parted the fog with a wave of my hand. Well, you don’t have to be so blunt!

How do you want me to say it?

I don’t know! Do you want some more bourbon? Here….

No! Mike you’ve got enough alcohol in this room to pickle a hippo.

Where’s a hippo?

I’m staying here tonight and tomorrow, I’m getting you to your office. You can finish that bottle, but no more after that.

‘I’ll humor him,’ I thought. I plopped down on the bed and didn’t awaken until the next morning when he was prodding me. I opened my eyes to see ribs of sunlight piercing the window and scaling the wall.

Mike, let’s get up. I will shave you and then get you to the office.

I need a drink.

There is no more drink.

I let him shave me and then I dressed myself and he got me to work. When I started home that evening, the sky had changed. It was low and dark and spilling fat wide flakes of snow. I wrapped my coat tighter and hurried to my safe place and my comfort. My cognac from Canada would make me warm. After all, it was cold and snowing wasn’t it? I searched every cabinet and every secret place, but I was only to discover that all of the alcohol was gone. He had gotten rid of it while I was sleeping. He did leave me a bottle of Clicquot Club Ginger Ale, though.

Raj was not remiss about checking on me. His visits were often and always overnight. He made a point to make sure that I showed up for work the next morning. I would talk and he would listen. He was the sponge that soaked and blotted all of my bile, and the bitterness of my tormented soul.

At times, I would weep into the palms of my hands with deep and desperate sobs. I would feel his hand upon my shoulder and then a strong hug. My expunging would come to a stop as though a sore had been cut open and all the inner infection had been pressed out. We would sit there, tight together and all that was left within me was an exhausted emptiness - and warmth. It was an unusual warmth that was the yield of a heart fueled by tears.

He seldom spoke, but when he did, it was with wisdom and comfort that I had never known. Perhaps it was his Eastern mentality that allowed him to be a sculptor of souls - my soul. Little did I know that he was taming my fear. I was perplexed and could not see a life without Beatrice. He could see that I would just as soon become a recluse and yield to my depression. He was going to have none of that. My healing was being impeded by a dam of time, selfishness and petrified fear. He could see that there were stone tears within me that left no room for anything else. It was obvious to him that I was drifting through time. The never ending and never beginning mazes of time. Reliving what couldn’t be reversed and regretting the things I didn’t do. Then, I was captured by the two little words of what if? It was obvious that I was imprisoned by a spherical time that held no exits. Time, earlier in my life at first blush was boundless, but actually, I was incarcerated with heavy chains upon me that even old Marley, as he appeared to Scrooge, would deem such pitiful heavy burdens.

Little by little, he transformed me from a stone back to a man. He did so by convincing me of the benefits of life over death. I’m not talking about the dying. No one likes the dying part of death. I needed to see that the death and the dying were gone. I was the one living. I wasn’t dying and I wasn’t dead, but I was acting as though I was. Finally, I admitted it.

I like being alive, even if it is occasionally a real hardship and probably pointless in the grand scheme of history.

It was then, in the spring of 1930, that I at last had an overwhelming inner thirst to seize life with both hands. I saw that my existence in history and time was racing faster and faster. I longed for friends again. I wanted to love once more. I could feel Beatrice coursing through me and mingling with me. She had changed me forever. She wanted me to live. The dying and death was done and gone.

CHAPTER FIVE

I COULDN’T IMAGINE BEING healed without Raj’ help. However, my days were soon inundated with court cases, interviews, depositions and even nights in the books that I thought that I had left behind in my days at Princeton. New Jersey and New York were riddled with loss of jobs and with it came the consequence of loss of families. I did some work free, in spite of the chagrin of my employer. I guess it was Beatrice who had entrusted such a tender spirit to me. I don’t see why it would have made such a difference to the senior partners, since remuneration was slowing considerably because many of the people we were representing had lost their jobs.

We faced situations that were new to the legal world. I found no precedents in my books. In most cases, there was nothing that could be done and soon the losses started to outnumber the victories. I felt it necessary to think in unusual ways. It was time for some off the wall arguments, but to be convincing I needed to have a correct premise. That was not as easy as one might think.

Mr. Jones was let go. That’s true, but how can you hold the employer responsible if they’re now out of business? Therefore, instead of going up to the employer, now you go down to the family. Mrs. Jones doesn’t have enough money for food. That’s true also. So how were we supposed to think? Mrs. Jones needs to go to the Church for help. Therefore, the Church should help her. Since the Church helps only its members, should she sue the Church? It was not easy.

I finally suggested at one of our Monday morning meetings, that we should change our target. Perhaps we should get involved in legal cases that revolved around people and companies that still had money.

Where is the money? I asked. Someone has to have the money of which everyone had so much of just last year. There was a consensus that I was correct, so a committee was formed to study the idea. Since I was the one that had the idea, I would be the one to chair the committee. That’s the way it works.

At last, Raj and I got together.

What’s it been? Six months?

Yes, it was the spring. April, I think, he replied. He looked haggard.

You look tired, he mumbled. You’re not back on the bottle are you?

No, I don’t have time to drink. Sometimes I wish I had a bottle or two in my desk drawer at the office though, I smiled. You look a little under the weather also. Mr. Sheffield keeping you busy with that Duesenburg?

He closed his eyes. I had never seen him react in such a way.

He sold it. That’s what he mumbled, but I didn’t hear what he said.

I’m sorry…what did you say?

He sold and bought a Ford.

Oh, I didn’t know how to respond and I’m the lawyer. You don’t like driving the Ford?

Oh that has nothing to do with it. He is so different from what he used to be. It is difficult for me to be around him at times. I need to ask you a question, Mike.

Go for it. I took a bite of my sandwich and looked at him. He had not touched his soup yet.

Mr. Sheffield has not said much to me about these things, but I have heard him speak on the telephone and with others who visit. I believe that he has lost a lot of money. Is there some way you can help us?

I don’t have much money to loan, but I could….

No, No! Not that! Is it possible to sue these companies that have lost so much of his money?

I answered cautiously with my mouth going one way and my mind going another.

You know, Raj, we’ve been suing for families and others who have lost their jobs, but in many cases, the company is out of business so even if we get a judgment, there’s nothing to collect. I don’t even remember saying that, because I was thinking of something that was the complete opposite. Apparently, Raj was ahead of me.

"But he