A Journey Beyond

By Jr. Gray

A Journey Beyond is a work of fiction but rooted in the reality of human experiences, including childhood friendships and adventures, eternal bonds of love and loyalty, the intrigue of quantum theory, and the limitless possibilities of the union of science with imagination. The initial setting is on the front porch of an old farmhouse in central Iowa, where an aging farmer, Ray, reflects upon a boyhood adventure on that very farm that begins a journey on a path of discovery, mystery, fear, betrayal, tragic death, unbearable loss, and ultimately a chance for redemption and reunion. The emotional trauma and confusion Ray endures on this journey are made bearable by the supportive relationship of his wife, Bunny, with whom as a teenage beauty queen he falls in love, shares the joy and sorrow of raising and losing a child, nurses through the stages of a debilitating disease, and struggles to confess his dark secrets. In his quest to solve a lifelong mystery, Ray discovers evidence of murder and cover-up, flees from the pursuit of federal agents, and finds his chance for escape beyond in an energy source with the power to cut through the fabric of four-dimensional space-time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Oct 24, 2018
• ISBN: 9781642988352

Book preview

1

An Iowa Farm—Autumn 2015

I close my eyes and it is happening again, just as vivid in my memory as when it happened nearly forty-seven years ago. I feel the coolness of an autumn day, the moisture of a fine mist on my face, the smell of manure, the crunch of dried corn stalks under my feet, as we run through the field—two eight-year-old boys, totally oblivious to the impending event looming ahead that will define us, shape us, bond us forever.

Perhaps it is more than a memory. Perhaps it is happening again. It feels real as I allow myself to drift into that dreamy twilight world where fact and fantasy dance together so that they seem as one, inseparable and indistinguishable, and where I stop trying to sort it out.

I am one of those boys, and he is ahead of me, this friend of mine, nearly vanishing in the misty near-light of early morning as he vaults over mounds of sod and mud. Wait, I scream as the heaviness of my mud-caked sneakers seems to anchor me to the earth and I fall farther behind with each plodding step.

Wait for me, you bastard. Now I can’t see him at all, and I feel the excitement of this boyish adventure turning to anger, frustration, and a longing to be back in the warm comfort of my bed that I abandoned not long ago at his insistence.

This adventure, starting with his sleepover at our farmhouse, was his plan. Climbing out of my bedroom window with him, surrounded by darkness, I felt the thrill of standing up to his dare and the apprehension of being caught by my parents.

I try to quicken my pace, but I still can’t see him. The breeze that we felt earlier is no longer gentle as it whips my hair and howls in my ears. I can hear nothing else. Blind and deaf to his presence, I am beginning to panic. Tommy, Tommy, where are you?

Nothing.

Come on! Don’t do this!

Nothing.

Tripping over the felled corn stocks, arms flailing, I sprawl headfirst into the mud. Shivering and tears welling up in my eyes, I hear his voice.

Over here, wussy.

I wipe my eyes and nose on the sleeve of my now filthy denim jacket, right myself, and scramble toward the voice.

Now my anger is returning. Why didn’t you wait?

He doesn’t answer. As I approach, I realize that he is not focusing on me, which is somewhat of a relief. What I don’t need now is his recognition of my ebbing panic followed by his merciless taunting.

Look at this.

His finger is pointing at the earth in front of him.

What?

This, you idiot.

And as my vision clears, I see a small opening in the earth, like a gopher hole, but expanding as we watch mud and rocks eroding from its sides. Now it looks more like a sinkhole—an opening without a bottom. And indeed it is, as we would learn, not only an opening but a doorway into our future.

2

Brenda

Yeeeeeeooooow! The sound startles me as a blur of orange and white scampers from beneath my feet. Slow to learn, Skittles the cat, after countless tail crunches, still refuses to give up his refuge under my rocking chair on the front porch. I suppose I should be a little more respectful of his territory, but he is the one who assumes the risk of invading mine.

The image of my daydream lingers and I shudder. Two naive, innocent (or mostly so) youngsters still staring, their eyes widening in time with the eroding ground in front of them. It fades and most of my composure returns.

I reach to my lap to recover an open newspaper, lick some dried saliva from the corners of my mouth, and smile to myself as I try to focus my eyes on the print and my mind on the present.

Stop terrorizing the cat, Ray. It’s Brenda’s voice from the living room, filtered slightly by the screen door. Brenda, my wife for thirty-one of my fifty-five years, still beautiful in my eyes, aging with courage and grace despite the hardship of life on a farm, the burden of a crippling disease, and the loss of a beloved child. Brenda, a unique, beautiful package of life experience, enduring measures of disappointment, bitterness, and pain made bearable by equal measures of joy, optimism, and fulfillment, still as naive and innocent in many ways as those boys in the field long ago.

It is the same field that my eyes now scan as they lift from the newspaper. The exact spot where those boys stood is beyond my sight, behind the same rise of the field that slowed my pace then. But I know where it is exactly, now covered by planks and sod, a makeshift camouflage that may hide it from the sight of a casual observer but never from my mind. How many times I have crossed that field and approached that spot—sometimes with my feet, sometimes in my memory.

The field is now fallow, without plow or crop for many seasons. I still take that walk quite often, not to explore now but to honor the memory of loved ones who vanished there.

3

Ray’s Story Begins

The cat’s a dumbass for sleeping under my rocker, Bunny, I call back, using the endearing childhood pet name that I love. What would you like for dinner?

Although she is not entirely bound to her wheelchair, it is more and more difficult for Brenda to navigate our less-than-handicapped-equipped kitchen these days. Hence, my new role as cook and caregiver where my skills are sadly lacking.

Anything but the three-day-old meatloaf again please, master chef. Check the canned goods in the pantry.

Pulling my aging, angular, but still fairly fit frame out of the chair, performing a cracking deep knee bend, and literally shaking off the sleepiness, I move across the porch toward the sound of her voice.

Pushing open the screen door to the living room, my breath catches in my chest and a small lump forms in my throat. I just can’t get used to this sight. My Bunny in a wheelchair. She smiles that radiant smile while I snatch a handkerchief from my back pocket and blow my nose in an effort to regain my composure.

So you’re tiring of my award-winning meatloaf? I try to look offended.

Oh, it’s good, sweetie, it really is, she whispers, pecking my cheek as I lean toward her, but you know what they say about overdoing a good thing.

Okay, I’ll search the pantry for inspiration, but I’ll remind you that this is not a five-star restaurant I’m running here.

The banter, almost as if scripted, continues each day, masking the obvious, unspoken fact: she is deteriorating physically and I emotionally. Vulnerable as she is now, her strength of will and brightness of spirit, always greater than mine, carry us through the days.

We chat through dinner, seated by the fireless fireplace, holding plates in our laps, chewing slowly, lingering, trying to draw out the early evening and delay the endlessly monotonous nighttime. Brenda’s rules of etiquette would never have allowed this, eating anywhere but at a properly set dining room table, especially when Jackie was with us. But the rules have softened now as have we.

Our conversation follows a predictable pattern about weather, friends and neighbors, and stories of our lives, interspersed with long but not awkward pauses. Nothing about plans; there are no plans.

When the pauses get longer with thoughts unexpressed and the mood drifts from light to somber, I pick up the plates and move toward the kitchen.

KP duty for me. Relax while I clean up. What else is there for her to do?

’Kay.

Want another pillow? Magazine?

I’m fine.

I have a surprise for you tonight.

I see the chin rise and the eyes light a bit but not with the sparkle I once knew.

Oh, what’s that?

Wouldn’t be a surprise if I told.

’Kay. A hint then?

Nope. Just be patient.

I wash the dishes with unusual deliberation, glancing occasionally at the back of her wheelchair in the living room. Racking the dishes, utensils, and glasses in the drainer—they rarely get towel-dried or put away these days. I quietly disappear into my study, returning with a well-worn binder.

I’m wondering now if this surprise is a good idea. It could evoke questions I don’t want to answer. Intended as a diversion, as something to fill the time before our mutually dreaded routine of preparing her for bed, it could dampen an already-depressed mood. I pause, take a deep breath, and commit myself to the risk not only of her response and reaction to this surprise but also of my response and reaction to the pain of the past.

I’ve started my novel, I begin, seating myself beside her once more.

Ray! Really?

Really. My tone is subdued, unsure of myself, my writing, and my good intentions.

Oh, Ray, that’s wonderful.

I begin to glow a bit inside as I always do with her encouragement.

It’s just a beginning, you understand. A fictional piece. Probably a short story as yet without an ending. Quite rough at this point. Unedited, unpolished.

Want to hear.

And so I begin reading my story—masked as fiction with characters disguised to protect Brenda, but events starkly real—a story I have never told, recorded now never to be read, a confession of guilt, an appeal for pardon. Robby plays my part, Al plays Tommy, and other parts will be filled as this drama unfolds. As I begin, I hear my voice as a detached third person, and I am caught up in his narrative even as the long-buried secrets of the past escape my lips.

4

Autumn 1968

It was cold and damp on this early morning in October as two boys scrambled across an Iowa cornfield engulfed in predawn mist. Their mission was unclear really, just a response to the type of dare–double dare that gets eight-year-olds in trouble. The bigger boy, seemingly in charge of this adventure, a mini rebellion against parental authority, was in the lead, and his breathless companion was struggling to catch up.

The smaller boy, staggering over the uneven ground, fighting to maintain his balance, fell further and further behind. Losing sight of his friend, panic and uncertainty replacing his earlier excitement, he plodded on, head down through mud and mist. Wait! . . . Al, Al, where are you? . . . Come on! Don’t do this! he pleaded between gasps for air. Then he sprawled, spread eagle, to the ground.

Over here, came the reply.

He quickly regained his feet, if not his composure, and started moving toward Al’s voice, at once both relieved and angry. Why didn’t you wait?

Look at this, Robby, was Al’s greeting as Robby approached. Al, on his knees, was pointing at something on the ground in front of him. Rob, panting, dropped to his knees beside his friend for a closer look.

I don’t see anything. What are you pointing at?

I tripped over this . . . this depression.

Robby’s gaze followed his friend’s finger point. Actually, it was more than a depression, Robby thought, as his eyes began to focus in the early light of dawn. Al’s footstep had opened a small hole in the soft sod between the rows of long-withered corn stalks.

As they watched, the hole widened, mud eroding down its sides. Al leaned over, careful not to get too close, observing this small avalanche of debris, peering into the hole that seemed to have no bottom. As the hole enlarged, it took on an oblong shape resembling an ever-expanding oversized football. When stabilized, it appeared to be roughly two feet long and half as wide.

The boys stood transfixed with fascination. Then boyish curiosity took over. Sinking to their knees, then sprawling on their bellies, they peered into the hole.

Then very slowly, very tenuously, Al reached in deeper and deeper. Nothing. No bottom. He probed around the sides underneath the sod. Holy crap, this is big. Hold on to me.

Al bent his upper body into the hole as Robby held on to Al’s belt. Oblivious to the risk of a mother’s wrath upon discovery of his mud-stained clothes, and equally oblivious to the risk of stressing the thin shelf of earth around the hole, he strained to find the bottom.

Then the fragile shelf caved in. Robby frantically grabbed at Al’s legs as Al disappeared into the hole.

Al . . . Al . . . Al . . . was all the Robby could manage as the ground gave way and he retreated on hands and knees. Panicked and unsure of how to help his friend, he listened in vain for life from the hole as he gasped for breath and tears washed dirt from his face.

Finally, as he managed to stifle somewhat his outburst of emotion, he heard similar sobs from the hole. Was it an echo? Was it Al? He battled for control of his shaking body, turning an ear to the hole and listening intently.

Robby, Robby, help me, the choking sounds reached his ears.

Robby crawled instinctively and without hesitation toward the cry for help. It was a bad decision that would change their lives forever. The clods of earth he clutched for balance gave way and he hurled into the abyss.

5

Autumn 2015

Brenda’s battle with amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, known more commonly as ALS or Lou Gehrig’s disease, began some four years ago, long after Jackie disappeared. They say that ALS may be caused by genetic weakness, but she has no such history in her family. Truth is, they just don’t know what triggers this attack on nerve cells that leads to muscle weakening in limbs, then other body regions, and eventually the diaphragm and intercostal muscles that affect breathing. My unspoken theory though is that when Jackie departed from our lives, so did her vitality, her will to live, making her vulnerable to the disease.

Jackie was the center of her life for the eight years he lived with us. And although he called us Uncle and Aunt, for Brenda he was the son she never had. She adored him and was crushed by his loss.

I study her now, her chin drooping, eyelids heavy, head nodding in presleep mode, not with pity but with love and admiration. She may have been vulnerable at the onset, but she still battles this disease with courage and dignity. The courage is innate, never to be destroyed, but the dignity, I realize, will be cruelly taken from her bit by bit as the disease progresses to its irreversible outcome.

She is unaware that I have stopped reading to focus on her or that my eyes are welling with tears.

Bunny, I think it’s time for bed.

She nods.

We’ll read some more tomorrow night.

Skittles, having returned from his sulking over the tail episode, leads the way as I push her wheelchair into the bedroom. And so our nightly pattern is established.

6

Autumn 1968

Robby’s landing wasn’t a knockout blow, but nearly so. He lay on his backpack still strapped to his back and gasped for breath as earthen debris fell on top and around him. He tried to scream, but no sound came from his trembling lips. The ground beneath him was cold and wet but not rocky. Perhaps that was something to be thankful for, but giving thanks for this good fortune did not occur to him.

As his breathing subsided, intense sensory awareness kicked in. A dull ache enveloped his entire body, but feeling no stabbing pain, he concluded nothing was broken. He stretched and moved arms and legs in snow-angel fashion, but felt nothing but the damp earth. He strained to see in the dark, but not the faintest image appeared. Hearing became his first sensory perception.

At first he thought it was his own labored breathing, but then he realized that what he was hearing was not in unison with the beat of his own heavy inhale and exhale. Something else was breathing, and very close to him. He shivered violently as his imagination painted an image of a grotesque monster with hairy hands reaching out for him.

Robby, you okay? said the monster.

A wave of relief rushed over him as he recognized Al’s voice. He formed words in response, but still he could not utter a sound.

Robby, Robby?

Finally, a squeaky sound imitating his voice called out. Oh, I hurt.

Of course you do, dummy. You just fell ten feet. Robby heard his friend’s crawling toward him and then felt the comforting warmth of his friend’s body next to him.

Holy crap, Al. What happened?