Conversations With Hrodgar, Part 2

More of the correspondence between Hrodgar and myself...

11 September of 2005

Zsallia,

Thank you for your kindness in replying and the gentleness of your admonishment. I do not intend becoming a problem to you. The fine line bright line is easier to see in daylight than at 4 am, hasn't it ever been thus! It is, as you put it seldom so neatly defined. We are such confusing creatures, full of contradiction, I am both relieved and disappointed. Perhaps because this is written while the birds morning call is still in my ears. I am by nature not a credulous person and yet it is true that the strangeness of truth often exceeds the banality of our understanding. Whether you are as you say or not is unimportant to me. The mind behind the keyboard is real and, if willing to converse in the written word then I am well pleased even though it is in your words an extraordinarily poor cousin to personal interaction.

My inbuilt consequence engine played out the possibilities and the written word seems in daylight the preferable, if less immediate way forward. I cannot propose anything of value in my writing other than truth as I know it, you have no obligations to me of any kind. My purpose is unclear to me, part fascination and curiosity along with a degree of compulsion that is not based on reason, but as with many of my actions, that compulsion will be held in check by a quiet voice. I did not express it well but I think it was the drowning out of that voice and the abandoning of rationality that I both feared and craved. You writing speaks to me of this eloquently.

In your earliest memories it was clear that you had been seriously injured to the extent that your recollection of the past at that point was destroyed. It is hard to damage a brain so badly that the first feelings and imprints of mothering are lost even to dreams. Your pursuit of physical contact could in part be a response to your too early parting from a mother figure, or the loss of those memories. Perhaps without the usual consequences you experience a freedom forbidden most people. You have the ability to truly love and be loved, a gift normally given through a mothers nurturing care of a child. The puzzle of your being is intriguing, make sure you never let a geneticist at your DNA or you will never find peace. The ability to produce a portrait from an individuals genome is rapidly advancing and a drop of your blood to someone who understood its value would be a prize that many would spend great fortunes seeking. I am certain you already know of these things but please do not take them lightly.

If I ask impertinent or silly questions please forgive me and understand no answers are demanded, it is merely my curiosity expressing itself.

When you escaped from the sea and your feet grew back, do you recall the way of it? You described it as happening at a furious pace, being remade by the hour. I am fascinated as to how the limbs took form again. The way it happened might explain much about how you came to be.

Hrodgar, I am told is from a Roman name meaning accurate with a spear. Do you know if this is true? I have spent an inordinate part of my life becoming accurate with a pistol and once owned many guns. I have none now, a condition imposed by my wife before marriage and while not my preference I am happy to live without the complications.

Have you regained your pleasure at beholding the night sky? For me, on the occasions when I am far from a city the stars provide a humbling and yet comforting sense of scale, a sight that refreshes my sense of wonder. Our span is so short in the scale of things.

Finally your statement about creativity and your lack of it. If you are as you say then you more than make up for it with the richness of your past. Creativity is something others see in me but I not in myself. Often what they think is new and fresh is just conjured associations from the sea of experience, a new assembly of things already known. Now it is only when I dream or tell stories to my daughter I feel creative in myself. My creativity mostly seems just the ability to see connections that other have not seen before. My skill is probably the way of taking an idea and making it something alive that will drive others to bring it into being. There is a place below consciousness where I can sometimes know things I have never heard or seen and I can go there and bring out surprises on occasion. I have never really been satisfied with my art, yet others like it. If you are indeed just an idea then you exist in an exceedingly creative mind with a remarkably broad knowledge of the past and present and are no less interesting because of it. A creative lack of creativity expressed in a denunciation of what is clearly true. What a charming conundrum, nonetheless you seem real enough to me.

Hrodgar

16 September of 2005

Dear Hrodgar,

I intended no admonishment, gentle, or otherwise. My words were simply advice based upon hard won experience. If they offered some guidance then that is all to the good, but beyond such things they have little meaning. After all, I am quite free to ignore you.

Creativity is an odd beast. While one could easily attribute my presented recollections to creative efforts, for me they are tortured constructs. Often the recalling and retelling of tales engenders a deep sadness within me that I overcome only with patience and experience. When I long for the past I must force myself to be ever mindful of the futility of such things. Of late I am forced to remind myself of this almost daily. There is only today and the hope of a tomorrow. The past may inform you, but never should it rule you, for the past is a pitiless master.

My escape from the sea was a near thing, though I did not regard it such until recently. This might seem odd to you, but I had never made much habit of analyzing my own past. I am far more comfortable turning my critical functions upon the words and actions of others. Introspection is indeed a familiar tool, but I tend towards the recollection of feeling and motive, rather than act and fact. It was not until I began keeping a journal of sorts in 1838 that I began to think upon the things that I had done as opposed to the things I had felt. When I set upon my online journal the exploration of those past experiences seemed a natural avenue to pursue.

I have wandered from the topic. Do forgive me.

I am not an expert in physiology so I warn you not to expect a ?blow by blow? description of things; however, the first event was the healing and regeneration of my skin. When I was tossed upon the shore my skin was a sodden sheath that seemed to hang upon my bones as some sort of shroud. It began to split and fall away as soon as I moved- underneath there was merely a layer of raw and tender flesh. I remember pain, but only dimly for my appetite overpowered all other distractions. Within a day I believe my skin had become more resilient, and I do recall the stumps of my legs had a different form, as if the ends of the long bones had reformed.

I was driven to return to the sea, to gather fish and mollusks, eating many shells and all. Even then my hunger was never satisfied. It would come upon me in waves: an overpowering need to feed followed by a torpid state interspersed with much pain and twisted, terrible dreams. My feet and ankles returned quickly, over a period of less than two weeks. Once the joint reformed (bear in mind this all took place under the skin so my observations were somewhat limited), each of the sections of the foot would return, proceeding almost as if being rebuilt in segments. By the time it was done I doubt I massed more than six stone, if that; however, once I was again fully motile I took up the hunting of small game and rapidly returned to my normal weight.

As I noted earlier, I believe this episode was the closest I ever came to truly dying. It was not until I undertook the detailed recollection of such things that I came to that conclusion, but on this day it seems quite clear to me. Ever since that time I have harbored an intense fear of the open sea. It is not water, or the seashore that frights me, but the open expanse of the ocean, beyond sight or hope of land. To this day I do not gladly suffer voyage by sea. It is somewhat a miracle I made the voyage to North America in the early seventeenth century, but I was driven by desperation and a magistrate?s decree. I shall confess to being pleased with the outcome, but if forced to repeat such a journey under those conditions? I shudder at mere contemplation of it.

Regarding your name, Hrodgar. It is actually quite familiar to me, being more of Germanic origin than Roman, and is more akin to ?strong spear?, where ?strong? would be taken as reliable, or dependable. In a hunting party the strong spear casts first, and often is credited with the kill. In war, the strong spear holds fast and anchors the line. It is an admirable name and well worth knowing. I have been the property and plaything of more than one individual bearing that name or its precursors.

It disconcerts me more than I thought it might that certain segments of the modern world have taken such a dim view of self-defense in general and firearms in particular. I go armed whenever possible, and I will go to some lengths to avoid situations where carrying a weapon is forbidden. I see it as a social responsibility that citizens should be prepared to enforce social norms- this forms the backbone of any true civilization. The Romans understood this. The Americans still do, though they are beginning to buckle under the constant assault of those who prefer comfortable tyranny to an uncertain liberty. The British Isles and Western Europe are nearly a lost cause so it pains me to know that yet another bastion of the Anglosphere may yet fall to such nonsense. I shall refrain from proselytizing, but I submit there were many innocent and law-abiding people in New Orleans, Louisiana who suddenly found themselves wishing they had the means to defend themselves. Civilization is more fragile than you know. Defend it.

I do wish this missive had not ended on such a strident note, but such is the outcome when more than a quart of scotch has passed the lips. Do take care.

With the kindest of regards,
Zsallia

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Conversations With Hrodgar, Part One

9 September of 2005

Zsallia

Thanks for taking the time to reply to my comments. When I first started reading your blog I was struck by your eloquence and how your past comes to life through people. Like many I wondered if you were a figment of some brilliant writer?s imagination. This no longer seems important, you are a real person with amazing stories to tell. Who you are seems less important than what you share with us.

We are all different. I was born with a gift to learn and understand how things work. Our bodies mechanisms of aging and healing are things no one fully comprehends, but some of the complexities are apparent. How you came to be is a puzzle and probably will stay so but your existence is both plausible and partially explicable from a scientific viewpoint. Evolution requires aging and death, Life itself has no such imperative. Your DNA is a little different, still human but with enough elegant changes that deliberate design rather than random mutation seems a certainty. You were made with purpose and your creation involved not a little effort and a thousand times more knowledge of our genetic code than we now possess. Whatever the purpose in your being I am glad of your existence and willingness to write.

I have always been driven by a hunger to learn and many times found what seems at first unknowable gradually becomes seen, first as ghosts and echos, visions, stories and dreams and then finally takes form and substance for me. My desire to meet you is strong, perhaps irrationally so. To know someone who has seen the beauty and futility, the cycles long and short with clear eyes and not held back through fear from truly living despite the certain knowledge of separation and loss. Perhaps to argue and debate, share the precious and puzzling, talk of things few know or even dare to think.

Happily, I have a family I love. As you are the very image of that which would tempt me most there is also the fear of losing myself and them. Although more through circumstances than will I have never consummated the desire to be with anyone but my wife, the incredible tide that swept me, head buzzing with desire for another, reason abandoned is still fresh in my mind after many years. I am however no Tom Cruise. My purpose for saying these things is to be honest and not hide myself or my fears however foolish or unlikely.

I have little to offer except my time and whatever I know that you do not. I can do one thing that is to my knowledge unique. My mind is driven by those I am with and changes in ways I do not understand when I engage. I have searched all my life for someone who could head to head equal me but have been left disappointed. Alone I am myself but come alive as if transformed and seem to know and see through many others eyes when challenged by another. This has in a strange way made me jaded and dissatisfied. Why was I made with a mind that excels most when brought alive by another's brilliance. The connection seems strange in that once made they become part of my way of seeing the world as if their understanding somehow imprints on mine. I believe if we were to meet the result would be a new understanding for both of us and although I don't know why I say it a resolution of some things we neither understood before.

I do not fully understand why I am writing this, The impracticality of what I am suggesting is breathtaking and I expect nothing more than a polite explanation of why it is impossible. Or even silence, but in some strange sense there is some purpose in this which will unfold in time.

Regards

Hrodgar

11 September of 2005

Hrodgar,

?Tis an odd world in which we dwell, is it not?

I have been approached before as a result of my journal, in some cases the method and persistence of such attentions became problematic and played no small part in my decision to abandon my efforts in December of 2003. This is not to say I am unwilling to converse, rather it is an admonishment to keep one?s credulous tendencies firmly in check. Regardless of who or what I might be there is much to recommend drawing a fine, bright line between what is true and what one wishes to believe.

Zsallia

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I Know Who You Are

?I know who you are.?

I said nothing, allowing Edna?s quiet words hang in the air behind me as I gazed upon Catherine?s final resting place. Her marker was large, yet very simple- a granite spire, somewhat weathered as were all the stones in this corner of the cemetery, with just her name and the dates: b 1831 d 1896.

?She was only sixty-five. Even being wealthy and protected, the damned winters were like a scythe, weren?t they??

?I know you heard what I said, so don?t pretend you didn?t.?

I had been feeling something from her for two days now. It was the only reason I had not left yet- I had to know what it was. Her certainty was so strong and it excited her so. I turned to face her.

?Who do you think I am??

?Great Grandma hired a Pinkerton man to track down Elaine a few years after the War Between the States. He went to Boston, found her lawyers? offices, but they were well paid, quite reputable and very tight-lipped.? She paused then and said, ?I think I need to sit... could we move to that bench?? She gestured with her cane and I nodded. Edna shuffled over, suddenly looking every day of her ninety-eight years, and settled down with a sigh, placing her cane before her with her hands perched atop. She waited until I took a seat beside her. ?Where was I? Boston. You always seem to go back to Boston. The Pinkerton man was no slouch, and you?d a way of impressing people, of course. He found a name: Melissa Burns, and there was some talk of Georgia. It took some doing but he tracked you down to a plantation where you were hired as a tutor in literature and mathematics. Then he discovered that you?d murdered a man named Clayton Williams. You were caught, tried, convicted and hanged. End of story, or so he thought.

?I have to wonder what he thought when Catherine sent him back to Georgia and told him to dig up your corpse, if he could. He went back and started asking more questions, spreading around money and liquor, until he bumped in to these two gents who?d had a near religious experience. Neither of them?d had a drink in years before they ran in to him- reformed men, they were. But his questions shook them up, and the whiskey was good, and the tale they told him? well, he?d never heard anything so wild and unlikely in his life, but he had his orders, and like I said, he was no slouch at his job.

?He tracked you to a border town in Texas. A pretty young redheaded prostitute named Molly, sweet and kind and very quiet, and sporting a hanging scar. Only by the time he got that far poor Molly?d had an accident, took a spill in to the river and drowned. Body never recovered. Of course, it couldn?t have been the same woman, because everybody swore she couldn?t be more than eighteen and Elaine?d have been close to sixty by then, except that Melissa Burns hadn?t been more than twenty-five??

?He would have had a very difficult time following me after that. Molly was a throw-away?? I stopped there because there was no point in continuing. Edna?s gaze was fixed on me, waiting. ?How many people know this story??

?Just me. It?s been passed down through the women in the family. Honestly, I didn?t really believe it myself until you showed up, and even then I wasn?t sure until just now. I haven?t told anyone; Sarah would be the obvious choice, but she?s such a Chatty Cathy I just couldn?t trust her with it.? She sat up straighter then, and took a deep breath, ?So, if you wanted to you could shoot me with that ugly old pistol you?ve got your hand on and the story?d die with me. I suspect you?d be able to get out of town before anybody caught on.?

I snatched my hand from my bag- I had not even realized I had my hand on the gun. I was embarrassed that she had noticed, that I had even unconsciously considered?

And then I was shaking, trembling so violently that I could not even speak. It was not fear, or anger, or joy, but simply conflict. I did not know what to do. Then a sharp pain exploded in my shin and I cried out as Edna drew back her cane after striking me with it.

?Get a hold of yourself! Lord, you?d think someone as old as you?d be beyond this kind of thing!?

I laughed out loud at that. ?I?ve heard that before? I should introduce you to the Yeti!?

?The who??

?Yes, never mind, it?s too hard to explain.?

We sat for several minutes before Edna finally asked, ?So, what?re you going to do??

?That?s the question, isn?t it? It?s not so easy as Jeremy thought it might be.?

?Sure it is. My son had you checked out- you?re loaded. I name you as my successor in the trust and then you can do what you want.?

?Really? It?s not that simple at all. Everything I know is telling me to leave, now, and never come back! I have rules I live by and I didn?t come up with them on a whim!?

?And you married Jerome- what?d your rules have to say about that? Why?d you do that? Seems pretty stupid to me. Be careful what you answer because Catherine had an idea and I think she was right.?

?I fell in love with him. Is that so hard to believe??

?Honestly? Yes, it is hard to believe. Catherine believed you were just lonely, and tired. Marrying her uncle was almost like trying to kill yourself. Just look at the trouble it?s caused you. Look at where you are right now, honey. Sure you loved him, but you loved him because it gave you a taste of something you couldn?t ever really have. You were trying to destroy yourself. Or at least destroy your life. You wanted an end, and Jerome was just the right man to help you find it.?

She sat back, her shoulders sagging. I could see the exhaustion radiating from her and suddenly I was ashamed again. How could I not see how much this was costing her? To be out here confronting me? Without another word I helped her to her feet and steadied her as we made our way back down the path to my car. She settled in to the seat and I buckled her in, then came around and started the car. Edna had her head back against the headrest, her eyes were closed.

?See, I think you?re going mad. All that running and hiding can?t be good for a body.?

?Do you understand how? how impudent it is of you to presume to speak to me like this??

She laughed quietly, opening her eyes to look over at me. ?Do you think you are wise?? she asked.

I thought about that as I maneuvered down the narrow drive to the cemetery?s exit. ?About some things, yes. Others, no.?

?Good answer. I am wise, and about a lot of things. That cemetery makes me wise- I know that?s where I?m headed, and soon, too. Focuses the mind, assuming the mind still works of course.? She chuckled then at her own little joke.

?And that?s something I lack, is it??

?It?s not just something you?re missing, it?s something you need.?

That was not a new thought for me, so why did it disturb me so to hear it from this woman?

?A cemetery?s not just a place of endings,? she continued, ?it?s a symbol, a place of roots. Kids today just don?t understand this stuff; they go wandering off in all directions and don?t give a thought to their family or their history. My daughters? I haven?t seen either of them in five years, or the grandchildren. All picked up and moved off to California and Hawaii? I kept hoping that one of them would get the notion to come home, but it?s never happened.?

?Yet here I am.?

?Yes,? she smiled, ?here you are. I?m fit to be pickled now that you?re here. I honestly never believed it was possible, just some funny folk tale, or better yet a practical joke.?

I considered that for several minutes as we drove on in silence.

?So, if I were to say I was merely humoring you??

?I wouldn?t buy it for a second. I saw the look on your face when you were touching that pistol- you?re first thought was to kill me and run like the dickens.?

?I would never have??

?I know, but you thought it. So why are you here??

?I needed to know how much damage? no. I wanted to come, to see what had happened to the people I cared about. I was here a few weeks ago- I visited Jeremy?s grave. I thought that would be enough?? I stopped then, feeling tears coming from someplace unexpected. I pulled to the side of the road and parked the car, then just gripped the wheel, desperate to compose myself. Why was this happening? Why was this woman, somebody who was still just a child in comparison to myself, having this affect on me? Why was I so damned angry?

?Don?t stop now.?

I looked at her, uncomprehending for a moment, and then I asked her, ?What would you do if I took you home and then left, and never returned??

?Nothing. I?d go to my grave knowing that I?d been privy to a great secret. Of course that?s easy for me to say because we both know you?re not leaving. C?mon dearie, stop trying to nice to the little old lady and spit it out- why are you here??

?Because I was never ready to leave!? It came out so suddenly and so succinctly that it drew all of the emotion out of me in a single statement: I had never wanted to leave. I left because it was my way, a habit, a rule I lived by. It had never been a problem before, but so much had changed since the early centuries of my life?

?Then why leave??

?That?s enough,? I snapped, my voice dropping in to a peremptory tone that made Edna sit back a bit. I put the car in gear and pulled out again, unwilling to talk any further, or to listen for that matter. Edna attempted to engage me, but I tuned her out so thoroughly that she soon gave up.

What was wrong with me? I had been willing to reinsert myself in to this family so long as I could do it on my terms, maintaining this thin fiction of secrecy, holding myself aloof from them. Why did Edna?s knowledge change things so? Why that sudden impulse to murder and flight? It was clear to me, unmistakably clear that she posed no threat. Even if she did choose to tell her family what she knew, what would they think? She knew this, I could tell she knew this.

I am terrible at snap decisions. Every one I have ever made has turned out to be ill advised in one way or another. I needed time to think. I arrived at that terribly insightful conclusion as I pulled in to Sarah?s driveway. Edna sat beside me, radiating dismay.

?I am going back to Boston,? I told her, making my voice as gentle as I could.

She emitted a quiet sigh of resignation, and then visibly nerved herself to ask, ?And What will you do there??

I paused, unwilling to be short with her again, and then gave her the most honest reply that I could: ?Think. Decide. Act.? She nodded at that, and allowed me to help her out of the car and up to the house. At the door something suddenly occurred to me. ?You never visited your husband?s grave??

?Oh, that?s not important. Perhaps next time??

?Yes, perhaps.? I turned to go, but I could feel her eyes on me, as if they sought to pull me back.

?Genevieve? now that can?t be your real name, can it??

I paused and turned back to face her as she stood framed in the open doorway, looking small and frail and forlorn. ?No, of course not. I don?t have a given name that I can remember, but I chose one, long ago,? and I told her my name, the name I chose that I have called myself for more than two millennia. Then I turned away and walked to the car. It was time to go.

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The Beast

I encountered a new blog yesterday, and I find it quite intriguing. He moves me, deeply, because his writing is so intensely personal. Go visit The Beast.

UPDATE:

Having had time to review everything I do believe I have been timid in my recommendation. Allow me to redress that now: Travis seems to be unwittingly engaged in the task of defining the art of being Man. That his words are so wrenchingly personal is testimony to his courage and generosity. I wept when reading his offerings, and not out of joy, or sorrow, or pity, but out of gratitude that he chose to share so much of himself. I am willing to consider that it is perhaps just a personal preference on my part, but I believe that not to be the case. I believe Travis and The Yeti and Etherian could have quite the correspondence. Would that I were a fly on the wall?

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Resolution, Of Sorts

In the end the crisis point of my latest little misadventure stole up behind me on quiet feline feet. Several days had passed without any activity, meaning that none of my few very modest ?monitors? had detected any action regarding inquiries in to my name, or my finances or my history. So of course early Saturday afternoon my doorbell buzzed.

I regarded the intercom for a full minute, fully aware that if the person who rang the buzzer was truly looking for me my days in this city, in this identity, were quite likely over. The buzzer rang again.

?Yes??

?Miss Baker? I need to speak with you. My name is Roger Travis.? There was no anger in the voice, perhaps just a trace of apprehension. With a heavy sigh I triggered the latch for the security door and then opened the door to my apartment. Mentally I checked the location of my pistol, then examined myself in the mirror- I was wearing a light white sun dress as I had been preparing to go for a walk and enjoy the summer heat after so many days of rain. I was not made up. I appeared painfully young.

The man who arrived at my door was nearly forty, tall and in good condition- barely breathing hard after climbing four flights in the heat of this summer day. He bore a strong resemblance to his father, handsome in that square-jawed, steely-blue-eyed quintessential American Cowboy way, all of it accentuated by blue jeans that had obviously seen their fair share of hard days? work and a crisp, clean khaki shirt open at the neck and sung about muscular biceps. There was the scent of fresh hewn cedar about him, enticingly masculine.

He introduced himself again and I invited him in. We exchanged pleasantries and he commented on all the boxes still stacked in the kitchen and the hallway.

?Moving out??

?In, actually. I?ve been in Colorado for several months- I only returned two weeks ago. Everything was in storage so I?ve been sorting out what I need and what can go. I just made a pitcher of iced tea, would you care for some??

?Yes, thank-you,? he smiled then, put at ease by the nicety of domestic hospitality. Just as I had intended. It was a dance, each carefully feeling the other out in a game both ancient and tantalizing. I poured a tall glass over fresh ice cubes and handed it to him. He took it in his left hand and I deliberately noted the lack of a wedding band, allowing my index finger to trace the length of his ring finger. I produced a bowl of sliced lemons and sugar and we fixed our refreshments to taste then took our leave to my living room. There we sat, and an uncomfortable pause stretched out for several seconds.

?I hope your father was not terribly put out by my behavior the other day. I?m not normally so easily flustered.? That drained a great deal of the tension from his face and I began to hope just very, very slightly, that this might turn out well after all.

?My father?? he began, and then hesitated before starting again, ?It?s been a very tough year for him. For all of us. Four months ago my mother passed away- she?d been sick for nearly a year, bone cancer.?

?Oh! I?m terribly sorry.? I did not have to feign sympathy- mortality always strikes a chord within me and I let it show clearly. I have seen so many times where death has wreaked havoc in otherwise normal, happy lives that it always leaves me feeling at least a little compassion towards those left behind. It is odd, but it is innate. Furthermore, I had suspected this was the case. ?You all must miss her very much.?

?Yes, especially my father. They were inseparable?? he caught himself then, unwilling to offer any more to this stranger than he had to. ?When he showed up at my place last week he was so badly shaken I thought he was sick. He wouldn?t talk to anyone about it, he just said he couldn?t be home alone.?

?He did seem very distraught.?

He ignored me and went on. ?That night, he told me about Claire. Mind you he?d never mentioned her before, I don?t even think my mother knew about her. It?s not like it?s some giant scandal in the family or anything like that. Hell, it?s just something he never, ever mentioned? ?til he ran in to you.?

I could see everything coursing through him: concern over his father?s reaction to me, relief that I was so obviously not some youthful-looking sixty-something, an uncomfortable and titillating awareness of how thin my dress was and how neatly I curled in to my chair. I drew him out with a dangerous and carefully applied mix of genuine concern for the words he spoke, inviting sexuality, and open friendliness. It was an elixir he was ill prepared to resist, assuming he had cared to. Men cannot be badgered in to opening up, instead they must be invited, seduced.

?He had a photo album, pictures from his racing days I?d never seen before because all of them showed your mother. You really do look exactly like her, you know.? I nodded and he went on. ?I can see how he might mistake you for her at first glance, from a distance? but after he introduced himself? What happened??

I recounted the meeting in full factual detail, only prevaricating where my own internal reactions were concerned. Roger nodded and I knew he had already spoken to others about it, ticking off facts in his head as I replayed the scene for him. I could sense his concern deepening and once again I had to review my own impressions, but I saw nothing beyond what I had originally surmised.

?Damn,? he sighed, ?I don?t know what to think. I thought he?d bounced back as well as anyone could expect after ma passed away.?

?He still thinks I?m Claire?? That thought disturbed me immensely, not so much for its implications for me, but rather for William.

?No? at least he understands that it?s not possible that you?re her, but??

?He knows it up here,? I whispered, touching my head.

?But not here,? he finished, touching his chest, ?exactly. I?m not sure what to do. Hell, I?m not even sure why I?m here, telling you this. I have to wonder if there?s something wrong, something psychological??

He said psychological, but he was thinking Alzheimer?s. It was a possible out for me except that it was absolutely untrue, and I knew that for a certainty. I could have let Roger continue thinking that, perhaps go and convince his father that something was wrong? and curse him as fully as were I some ancient shaman of myth and lore. Such doubts could become self-fulfilling prophecy. No matter how much I desired to see this episode filed away as something innocuous I simply could not purchase my security at such a price.

?You said yourself that your father has been through a lot. What if he actually was sick that day??

?What do you mean?? he asked, his eyes looking directly in to mine, piercing, searching. It was all well and fine for him to privately consider his father?s mental state, but he would brook no disrespect from me on that topic.

?You said he looked ill when he got to your place. What if he was? Has he been sleeping well? Has anyone been looking in on him to make sure he?s taking care of himself? What if it was just a long day and he was coming down with something? He saw me and got one shock, then was told something he certainly didn?t want to hear, that had to be another blow, and then I got all defensive when he wanted to meet again. So for a moment he thought he saw something that he knows he couldn?t have seen, and now it?s something that he can?t let go of because it upset him so much.?

Roger was nodding because it had a certain consistency about it, and because I was prodding him as hard as I possibly could with body language. No man truly wants to be in disagreement with an attractive woman, particularly when she is telling him something he desperately wants to hear. He mulled it over for all of thirty seconds.

?I have a favor to ask??

?Of course. I would be happy to meet with your father again.?

?Thank-you,? he said, smiling. I felt myself blushing. This was growing more complicated by the second, but I did not let that stop me from returning his smile.

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Escape

Fate smiled upon me: the bus was preparing to pull out and I caught it just in time. Even then I was soaked to the skin from the downpour. The weather fit my mood perfectly as I took a seat in the back to wait for my stop and attempt to sort out what had just happened. I wanted to believe I had not seen what I had in William?s eyes, but I am far, far too old to deliberately deceive myself.

Throughout the ride I went over the events in the restaurant, assessing what problems I could expect, drawing out every shred of information I could recall. Part of me was screaming to drop everything, take the thousand dollars in my purse, get out of town and never look back. This was actually the most reasonable part of me. The colder, more calculating, more selfish part of me wanted to stay and tackle this head-on. That part of me could be quite dangerous and had to be held in check.

I do not remember getting off the bus. I became aware that I was standing in my apartment, staring out the front window with the lights off. The air conditioner was running and my clothes were becoming clammy from the chill. I undressed in the bathroom and turned on the shower as hot as it would go, but before stepping in I went to my bedroom and took my pistol from its drawer. Nothing fancy: a model 1911 Colt .45. Large, unlovely and utterly reliable it had been my companion on and off for over eighty years. I loaded it, chambered a round, verified the safety was on, and set it on the vanity in the bathroom.

The scalding spray cut in to my skin, shocking, invigorating? cleansing. I flipped the control over from full hot to full cold, turning as liquid ice coursed down my back, then over my shoulders, across my breasts, down my belly. It centered me, driving away the uncertainty as I let it cool my scalp and my face. Five minutes was all it took, five minutes to bring logic and order to the chaos that had forced its way into my life unbidden. Even then, it was too long.

I slipped into my bathrobe and took up the pistol. I felt silly now for taking it out- by any objective measure I had little to fear tonight. I secured it and slipped it back in to its holster, but I did not put it away. I had to consider- instinct made me take it out. Instinct told me to run in the restaurant, I ignored it, and that turned out quite badly. I am no huge fan of guns, instead I accept the basic truth about them: when you need one nothing else will really do.

What course to take? The encounter in the restaurant could conceivably turn in to nothing, depending on who and what William was today. Both the hostess and the manager of the restaurant had recognized him and from their reaction I knew he was more than just a regular customer. As chaotic as things had been that still came through unmistakably. I went to my computer and called up a search on the mall- I did not dare to search for his name, but instead began methodically browsing through the information on the web site. I found it almost frighteningly fast.

General Manager: William Travis

I began a mental inventory of my visits to that particular mall; when, what stores, what purchases. I always pay cash so there was no easy way for anyone to come up with my name? I nearly laughed when I realized my largest problem was sitting directly in front of me: the cherry wood computer desk. Paid for with cash, of course, but delivered and assembled in my apartment only a week after I returned from Colorado. The panicked voice that wanted to run began piping up again, and this time I listened a little closer, but still?

Running posed a problem, just as it had in the restaurant. If William did search for me my disappearance would make the mystery more intriguing. Furthermore it would mean leaving the country, for I currently have no new identity prepared that would allow me any degree of security. I do have an escape route prepared against need, but? I do not want to go.

With that decision made I began to prepare for a confrontation, should it come to that. The story regarding ?Claire? was verifiable- it was how I had transitioned from that identity to the one I currently wear. The best lies are always spun about a framework of truth, after all. I could produce everything short of a grave to prove that Claire had lived and died in Guatemala and that I was her daughter. My financial records would hold up to an audit, but not a criminal investigation, at least not a determined one.

The time I spent in Colorado could be problematic, but a phone call or two would help to close any holes in the time line. Once again I was forced to confront my foolishness: what had ever possessed me to go skiing? It had not been a bad fall, but I fractured my left leg in three places. I can only imagine the perplexity of the doctors when I failed to follow up with them or anyone else- hopefully they were used to injured vacationers going home to their own doctors. Perhaps those doctors sometimes failed to request records and X-rays. It was plausible, but I should have been more diligent.

Of course the problem was more complex than that: the injury had healed rapidly, but I had also dropped a number of years in appearance as well. It happens and I have no control over it. While my birth certificate and driver?s license said I was twenty-four, without make-up and a conscious effort I looked all of eighteen. Not a huge difference, but enough that the last time I presented an ID to someone he had looked twice.

Despite the cumulative effect of these issues, I felt I had a very good chance of defusing this if I held my ground. Most in my favor was that no reasonable person could seriously entertain the idea that I was over sixty years old. Most likely William would wake up in the morning feeling foolish for having accosted that girl in the restaurant, for thinking even for a moment that she might be other than she claimed.

It made sense. All I had to do was sit tight and most likely this would pass.

Still, I slept with the .45 under my pillow.

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A Chance Encounter

It was a chance encounter, all the more unnerving for that. I was at a mall shopping for some replacement items for my wardrobe. Since returning from Colorado I had been feeling an urge to make a change in my daily attire and I finally decided to indulge it. As it was well past dinnertime I decided that I could stop for a bite at one of the restaurants just off the food court. I am not terribly fond mass-produced food, but this mall is rather upscale and the dining options were fairly attractive. I took a small table looking out upon the mall that allowed me to engage in my favorite hobby: watching people.

I was waiting for my meal, sipping at my tea, casually looking over the passers-by while avoiding any direct eye contact. It actually works better if I have a magazine or a book, but I can put forth an expression of bored indifference well enough to convince anyone that my gaze in his or her direction must be nothing more than coincidental.

I spotted him as he left the food court, and he instantly made eye contact. His reaction was so startling that I nearly reacted myself, but I let my eyes slide off of him as if he had not come to my attention. Still, in my peripheral vision, I saw him stagger over to a bench and carefully take a seat. Alarm bells began ringing in the back of my head after another pass revealed him to be sitting, staring at me intently. Then I recognized him: William Travis.

William and I had shared one very short, exquisite year of hedonistic pleasure together in Southern California on the cusp of the 1960?s before I had ended our relationship for his own good. He had promise, and he wanted children, eventually. It helped that I only liked him, I was still too deep in the grip of my last true love to be foolish enough to let it go any further, but he had felt otherwise. Or at least he thought he had. How could he love me when he knew only what little I had been willing to show him of myself?

Our eyes locked. I gave him a ?confused, why you are staring at me?? expression I hoped would convince him to move on, but as he rose to his feet again he made straight for the entrance to the restaurant. For a brief moment I considered fleeing, but I knew that might make matters far worse. I pretended not to notice as he came in, waving off the hostess who addressed him by name, saying he was here to meet somebody and, oh, there she is right over there, thank you very much.

He came to my table and I looked up in to his earnest, questioning face.

?I?m so sorry to bother you like this, miss, but? you wouldn?t be related to Claire Simon by any chance??

Lie? Or deny?

Lie.

?Claire Simon is my mother,? I replied, smiling, ?and you are??

?Will, Will Travis. I knew your mother many years ago- I would have guessed you to be her granddaughter, rather than her daughter, but the resemblance is? striking.? He gestured to the empty chair, ?May I??

?Please, yes,? I smiled at him. This had the potential to be very, very painful for him, but once begun there was no way to stop it. ?My mother was forty when I was born. It came as quite a shock to her, or so she said.?

?I?m sure it was. Your mother and I? Claire was very important to me. We were very close??

He seemed at a loss for words, trying to put it in to some sort of context he thought I might understand. I had to help him out, so I offered, ?Mom always thought she was sterile. She said she had ended more than one relationship because she couldn?t have children?? His eyes were still so very blue, and the way he looked down at the table, the set of his jaw, was the pain still so sharp? How deeply had I wounded this man? And I was about to multiply it, for there could only be one answer to the obvious question he was about to ask.

?How is your mother? I would love to see her again.?

I let my face tell him before I uttered any word, waited for him to see, and to draw the obvious conclusion. ?My mother died several years ago. She was doing medical missionary work in South America at the time??

We had dinner together and talked about Claire as I tried my best to ease his pain, but there were problems. He kept coming back to how uncannily like my mother I seemed to be.

?I noticed you in the window here, but it wasn?t so much your appearance at first, as what you were doing. You were people-watching, weren?t you??

?Well, yes, ? I smiled, letting a little blush show.

?That?s what startled me so- Claire used to do the same thing, sometimes she would be very dramatic about it, telling stories about people who passed by, stories that you always had a feeling just might be true. When I saw you, the way you were sitting and looking over the people walking past? it was such a shock of recognition? though Claire usually had a newspaper or a magazine in her hand when she did it. At first I was sure you were her, then I realized how young you were?? but he was looking in to my eyes. Always in to my eyes.

I could see the wheels turning inside him and I knew this was becoming more dangerous by the moment. William was never stupid, nor was he given to flights of fancy, but at such close proximity, the two of us talking about my ?mother?, his senses were picking up all sorts of signals from me, unmistakable signals that kept drawing him towards a conclusion that his rational mind had to deny. Suddenly he inhaled deeply.

?You wear your mother?s perfume,? he commented.

Oh, Dear Lord, if you exist, please, you have to help us both! Right now!

The check arrived and he insisted on picking it up. He wanted to continue our conversation, but I pleaded other commitments. I tried to make it clear that I had enjoyed meeting him, but that there really was no reason for us to make plans to meet again. He became insistent almost to the point of rudeness. I could see the turmoil inside him, the certainty that there was something more he needed from me, the inner shock at his own behavior and the irrationality it bred. Every attempt I made to circumvent, to handle and direct him, was overwhelmed.

It was becoming a scene; people in the restaurant were turning to see what was going on. The hostess and a man who had to be the manager were approaching, discreetly, but deliberately. William was known to them- the hostess had greeted him by name. It was time to leave.

?Mr. Travis, I?m certain that your memories of my mother, and the news of her death have upset you, and I am very sorry for that, but I must be going.?

I snatched up my bags and rose to leave, but the manager was in the way and as I tried to brush past him he caught me by my arm.

?Just a moment, miss?? he stopped in mid-sentence because I had his wrist in my free hand and had twisted it from my arm, turning it just enough so that he knew another inch would make it quite painful.

?Jack! No!? William cried out, ?Let her go? let her go.?

I released the manager, and the tableau froze- William?s eyes and mine locked for the second time that night. And he knew. The manager made no move to stop me as I sped out the door and made for the nearest exit, fleeing in to the rain-soaked night.

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Obligations Willingly Accepted

My private line rang the other day. Less than a dozen people know that number, and all of them know not to call unless it is supremely important. When that number rings it means something is wrong.

Just for purposes of clarity, let me explain. Throughout my thirty-five-or-so centuries, I have occasionally chosen to confide in people the true nature of my existence. In the last thirty years or so I have actually provided those people with a method to contact me if they ever feel I can help them in any way. I owe these people, they have accepted me and helped me in ways both large and small, and in every case I hold their friendship to be a precious thing.

Still- I seldom meet with my confidants. Once I move on in my ceaseless change of identity the contacts necessarily become less frequent and less personal. This protects me, but it is also a mercy to them. Despite an intellectual acceptance of the reality of my existence, most cannot truly deal with my agelessness. Better to correspond via letters and the annual phone call.

But the personal line is my concession to any who accept me on my own terms. If you need me, call.

The Professor (a suitably descriptive, yet obscure euphemism) called last Sunday night. I met him and his significant partner (Mrs. Professor- a grand and enlightened educator in her own light) in 1962. We have not met in person since 1975. When I realized who was on the line my first thought was that somebody was about to die, but the first few words from the Professor?s mouth dispelled that concern. Both of them are nearing seventy now and the Professor wanted my input on their youngest grandson, a boy of seventeen whose path was headed decidedly in the wrong direction.

After a long discussion, I booked a flight to Colorado.

There is more to this story, but I need to see how the next few days unfold before I proceed. I beg your patience.

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