Ghillie Suit

If you want to be invisible, live in a city. Who remembers a face in the crowd?

I’ve chosen to disappear in New Orleans, but, most probably unlike you, I could be invisible anywhere. Am I speaking literally? Yes and no. I never vanish in a sense that would satisfy a physicist. I reflect light. If you photograph me, you’ll capture my image. I vanish in a sense would satisfy a psychologist. People really don’t see me unless I allow it.

I have a rough idea how the trick works. Vision is not just in the eyes. Mice raised in darkness are blind as adults even though their eyes are perfectly normal. They never learn to process signals from their eyes into images. I’m able to prevent people from processing my image even though my reflected light reaches their eyes. I become a blind spot to them. No one ever notices the blind spot. But then, we don’t normally notice our natural blind spots either – the ones where optic nerves meet retinas – even though objects as big as houses can vanish into them at middling distances.

The precise physical mechanism of this image block eludes me, but whether it is chemical, electromagnetic, or something else, I can in fact choose not to be seen. I keep quiet about my talent. I have no wish to be to be poked and prodded in a laboratory, so the physics of it will remain a mystery. I don’t believe there is anything supernatural about it.

There are limits to my invisibility. A person has to be in my physical presence to be blind to me. If he watches on a TV monitor, he will see me. The range is limited, too. Anyone beyond about ten yards will see me. This is adequate most of the time. My invisibility extends around what I carry or wear. I’m sure there is an upper limit to how large a volume around me I can screen, but I haven’t tried to delimit it. I can carry a full laundry sack, which is more than enough.

Am I unique? I don’t know. If there are other invisible people, I wouldn’t see them, would I? Many people “blend into the wallpaper.” On a sidewalk we might bump into people we didn’t notice. I think they have a little of my talent. I’ve never met anyone as good at it as I am, but that doesn’t mean no one else exists.

At first, becoming invisible was difficult for me. No longer. Invisibility is now my rest state. I have to make an effort to be seen.

I first became aware of my ability as child in a lower middle class household in Meridian, Mississippi. My parents used to argue a lot. Both were alcoholics. Dad was a nasty one. Mom’s reaction to booze was unpredictable. Sometimes she was maudlin, sometimes giddy, and sometimes mean. When they both were nasty, it was really bad for me. On those occasions I tried to avoid catching the attention of either of them.

One day, while nursing a bottle of cheap Bourbon, my made one of his frequent decisions “to beat some sense” into me. I wanted nothing more than to disappear. To my surprise, he couldn’t find me even though I was standing in the middle of the room he was searching. Then my mom walked in the door. He forgot about me as they hurled abuse at each other. Later, he fell asleep on the floor. My mother looked around the bungalow for me. She walked right past me five times. She called my name with an increasingly frantic edge to her voice. I wanted her to see me then. She saw me.

“Wherever you were hiding,” she said, “go there again the next time your father is like that. Maybe I’ll hide with you.”

I wish she could have done it. Instead, not long afterward she shot my father and herself. I tried to fade away in the foster homes that followed, but for years I couldn’t repeat the feat. Then, I did it again. My foster mom at the time was a self-righteous and preachy woman who was convinced that the moral action in every circumstance was whatever one benefited her. She constantly complained to me that Mississippi was short-changing her on the foster program payments. One day I was in the back yard. She exited the house and called to me. I truly didn’t want to face her just then.

“Where are you?” she demanded.

I was standing ten feet in front of her.

“Right here.”

“This isn’t funny young man! Come out right now where I can see you.”

I walked behind her and made a conscious effort to be visible.

“Right here,” I said.

She jumped, spun around, and cuffed me.

“Don’t do that again.”

From then on I could do it at will. A few weeks of experimentation in public places proved it. One day I walked into a bakery, grabbed two Danishes in full view of staff and walked out. No one noticed. I shoplifted with increasing brazenness. None of my foster parents ever asked how I came by new CDs and clothes. So long as they didn’t have to pay for them, they weren’t interested.

I live a straight and sober life because mind-altering chemicals interfere with my special ability. I discovered this the hard way when I nearly got caught lifting a bottle from a liquor store while drunk. The owner chased me for four blocks before I managed to turn invisible long enough to get away. The high of being invisible beats any high from drugs or booze anyway.

You might be wondering if I can walk into a bank vault unseen. Yes, but not undetected, so I don’t do this often. Security cameras record me.

At 18, I took a Greyhound to New Orleans. I rented a small apartment on Burgundy on the edge of the French Quarter and never regretted the decision. Until recently.

I love prowling the city unseen. I haunt not just the Quarter but the Garden District, the business district, the riverfront, and the cemeteries. Sometimes people hear me or sense a presence. Last night, I passed the streetwalkers on Decatur and turned up Toulouse where two men were in the middle of a small drug sale. Alarmed by my echoing footsteps, the dealer, money in his mouth, spun around and stared in my direction. With one hand he gripped something in his belt. His customer, a bearded man in shabby jeans, looked my way bemusedly. I stood still. After several moments, they returned to their deal, rapidly completed it, and hurried off. Maybe people like me inspire ghost stories.

Avoiding alcohol is no easy task in New Orleans, but I do it. I’m not without vices, though, which is why I entered a “gentlemen’s club” named Chez Tooloose on a hot and humid summer afternoon. The air conditioning in the bar was inadequate, but at least the temperature inside was lower than outside.

On stage was a particularly adorable young woman with librarian glasses and dirty-blonde hair. I’d seen her in the club before, but this was the first time I had caught her on stage. With deliberately smudged makeup and torn fishnet stockings, she affected a frowzy floozy look. It worked for her. I decided to be visible. I caught the attention of the busty bartender.

“What’s the name of the dancer on stage?” I asked her.

“Buy her a drink and ask her yourself.”

“I’ll do that. I’ll be right back.”

“Sure you will.”

Outside, the heat slapped me in the face. Turning invisible, I walked into a music bar a block away from Chez and lifted some cash from an open register drawer. I shaded my face from a camera with my hand.

“You’re back after all,” said the Chez bartender when I re-entered the club in full view. “What’ll it be?”

“Club soda.”

“Not old enough to drink?” she asked.

“Let’s say I have a problem with alcohol.” This was true, after a fashion.

A finger tapped my shoulder.

“Hi, I heard you asked about me. What’s your name?”

The question came from the ersatz rag doll.

“Brutus.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No.”

“It sounds like a Great Dane.”

“I didn’t pick my name.”

“Maybe you should,” she said. “You can, you know.”

“I suppose. What’s yours?”

“Ophelia. I picked it.”

“Just now?”

“No, I’ve used it for months.”

“That’s quite a coincidence.”

“How so?”

“We’re both Shakespeare characters.”

“I didn’t take the name from Shakespeare. I took it from The Addams Family.”

“Ah.”

“Want me to give you a dance?”

“Sure, Ophelia.”

“It’s not really a gift. You have to pay for it.”

“I understand.”

She led me to a chair in the corner.

Lap dances, when done right, are frustrating. Ophelia left me frustrated. I became a repeat customer.

Ophelia worked the day shift at Chez, which in clubs of this type means noon to eight. On a whim, I decided to follow her in the evening dusk after work. I know this is called stalking, but I meant no harm by it. Tell me you wouldn’t ever do it if you could be invisible.

She walked all the way to Esplanade on the edge of the Quarter. She stopped in front of an old frame building remarkable for its lack of straight lines. The porch roof sagged and windows tilted.

Ophelia looked at a truck parked on the street and said, “Oh, crap.”

It wasn’t my business, but her reaction aroused my interest. She walked up to the door and took a deep breath before inserting her key in the lock. I hadn’t planned to go inside her building, but when she was slow to swing the door shut in back of her, I slipped through. She ascended the stairs. Hearing the creaks of my feet a few steps in back of her, she stopped midway and looked back with a frown. Seeing nothing, she continued to the second floor.

She walked to a door marked 2B, but before she inserted her key, the door opened. Stanley Kowalski could have given etiquette lessons to the man who opened it. Reeking of whiskey, he grabbed Ophelia’s hair and pulled her inside. I quickly followed before he slammed the door shut. Ophelia slapped his face. He slapped her back, sending her glasses flying. I was ready to intervene when they stopped fighting and kissed. A moment later he pushed her onto the bed and climbed on top of her. She didn’t resist.

This was a relationship I didn’t understand, and didn’t want to understand. I decided to keep out of it. I snapped open the door lock in order to leave, but instantly espied a .25 vest pocket pistol pointed toward me from the bed. I stepped aside as Ophelia’s ape leapt to the door, flung it open, and ran out into the hall. I followed. He looked left, right, and down the stairs. He re-entered the one-room apartment, gun barrel pointed at the floor. I noticed a wedding band on his finger.

“Fucker got away,” he said.

“What are you talking about?” Ophelia asked.

“The door didn’t unlock itself. Someone was trying to get in with a key. Who did you give a key to?”

“No one. Oh, what’s the point of talking to you?”

The door swung shut in my face. I heard further arguing inside. I descended the stairs and left. Out on the street I looked at his truck. I contemplated deflating his tires, but concluded this, while satisfying, only would make him stay with Ophelia longer. Another impulse overcame me. I climbed in back of the pickup truck and waited. He exited the building in half an hour.

“Bitch,” he muttered to himself as he unlocked the truck and got behind the wheel.

The ride was not a very long one. He pulled into the concrete driveway of a brick ranch house in a pleasant section of Metairie, a close-in suburb. He parked next to a new Lexus. He got out of the truck and walked to the front door. I alighted on the driveway and walked to the picture window next to the door. I peered inside as he greeted his wife with a gentle hug and kiss. This just didn’t make sense in light of his behavior with Ophelia.

My attention turned to the expensive Lexus, presumably his wife’s car, in the driveway. It was a clue. The houses in the neighborhood were nice, but not extravagant. I peeked in the mail box. Junk mail addressed to Frank and Desiree Fechler was inside. One flyer was addressed to Francis Fechler.

I love the way so many Southerners use pickup trucks as personal cars. I walked to the nearest traffic light and waited for a truck pointed in the right direction to stop at a red. I climbed in back of the first one that did. It was a lucky pick. The truck took me all the way back to town. I got out on Canal.

Back in my apartment, an internet search of tax records confirmed my instincts. The house in Metairie was in the name of Desiree Delamar, obviously her maiden name. A second search showed Desiree Delamar also was part owner of several commercial properties held in common with two other Delamars, surely her parents.

Desiree had the money. Francis had married a rich girl who was in line to be a good deal richer someday. In the meantime her parents were providing them with a comfortable living but not a sumptuous one. Perhaps they hoped Frank would tire of waiting and go away. If Frank wanted to keep his cushy life and cushier future, he had to keep on Desiree’s good side.

Why was Ophelia involved with this creep? I considered possible interventions. A few incriminating photos of Frank and Ophelia mailed anonymously to Desiree might cause Frank some well-earned trouble. On the other hand, if Desiree kicked Frank out, he might move in with Ophelia. Much as I disliked the situation, it was out of my hands. I reminded myself it was none of my business, but found myself hard to convince.

For the next several weeks, I tried to win the confidence of Ophelia at her club. My stock of charm is limited, but whatever I had I lavished on her. The tips I lavished did no harm either. She at least revealed her real name was Olive, an old-fashioned name uncommon in our generation. She asked me not to use it.

I walked past her apartment house from time to time. Frank’s truck was likely to be parked out front at almost any hour. Since he didn’t seem to have a job, you would think Desiree would question his absences. Perhaps his friends covered for him, citing poker nights and such.

One day Frank entered Chez while Ophelia was providing me with a private dance in the corner. He sat at the bar, ordered a drink, and scowled at the two of us. Ophelia cut the dance short.

“Look, I have to talk to that guy. You understand,” she said to me. “It’s business.”

“You mean I’m not your one and only?” I asked with a smile.

She playfully shoved my shoulder. “Some guys get more jealous than you do. They forget that this is just fantasy in here.”

“I suppose they do. Go take care of business. I understand.” I understood better than she imagined.

She took a seat next to Frank at the bar. They quietly exchanged words. He then swallowed his whiskey, and departed abruptly without leaving a tip for the bartender.

I wanted more than ever to break up the two of them for Ophelia’s good and for mine. I left Chez, walked to Ophelia’s building, and waited. A tenant arrived. I tagged close behind him to the front door, but not quite close enough. The tenant slammed the door against me, and it bounced back open. He turned and looked to see what had obstructed it, but by then I was inside. He opened and closed the door experimentally before letting the matter drop.

I climbed the stairs and waited some more. Frank arrived, as I assumed he would. He used a key to open Ophelia’s apartment. This time I was inside before the door closed. I had no clear plan in mind. I was looking for anything that might turn Ophelia against Frank. There was one thing. He rifled through Ophelia’s belongings and mail. I was sure she wouldn’t like that, but how could I tell her about it? Ophelia arrived around 8:20.

“Who was that guy?” Frank asked Ophelia the moment she walked in the door.

“What guy?”

“The guy in the bar you were dry humping!”

“Just a customer. I’m an exotic dancer. It’s what I do. That’s how you met me.”

“Stay away from him.”

“Why? He’s harmless and he tips well. Nothing is going on.”

“He wants something to go on.”

“They all do.”

“I told you, dump him!”

“You aren’t paying my bills, Frank.”

“Is that some kind of crack? Are you ragging on me because I don’t get some big fancy salary at some do-nothing job handed to me by a rich uncle? I get enough of that crap from my in-laws, who could give me a job like that if they weren’t hateful mean-spirited bastards.”

“Frank!”

Frank pushed her. She pushed back. They wrestled and threw punches. The fight was just routine for them, but this one was about me. It was my fault. She shoved him away from her and he stumbled. On impulse, I reached out, seized his shoulders, and yanked. He fell hard backwards and slammed his head against the corner of an end table. His skull made a satisfying crack. The table leg broke. Frank hit the floor, his eyes turned up, and blood oozed onto the carpet. Ophelia ran into the bathroom and threw up. I exited the apartment and the building.

I hadn’t intended to hurt Frank. I just meant to pull him away from Ophelia, but I didn’t feel sorry for him either. If he was badly hurt, let him try to explain to Desiree from his hospital bed what happened and where. I paced outside the building waiting either for him to walk out with a bandaged head or for an ambulance to arrive. I narrowly avoided walking headlong into another pedestrian, so I turned visible and continued to pace.

“What are you doing here?” asked a voice from the porch. “Are you fucking stalking me?”

“Oh, hi, Ophelia. I was going home. I live around the corner over on Burgundy. It’s just over there.”

“You didn’t know I live here?”

“No,” I lied. “The Quarter isn’t a very big place. I’m surprised we haven’t run into each other before. I mean outside the club.”

“Yes, I suppose so. How far around the corner do you live?”

“Only a few blocks.”

“Listen, can I come with you? I’m not propositioning you.”

“That’s too bad.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry. A joke. Of course you can come with me. Is something wrong?”

“Yes.”

“My place is just a room, really.”

“I don’t care what it is.”

“Care to tell me what’s the matter?” I asked as we walked.

“I have to think about that.”

We walked silently to Burgundy as my apprehension built. My stomach slowly tied into a knot. We entered my one-room apartment, which contained little more than a chair, a bed, a computer, and piles of paperback books.

“You look puzzled,” I said.

“You always have money but you live here.”

“I’m not a materialist. I spend on what matters to me.”

“Like lap dances?”

“Your lap dances, anyway. So, what’s the problem?”

She decided to take a chance on me.

“I killed my boyfriend.”

“Oh. That’s not good.”

“No it isn’t. It was an accident. I’ve got to get out of here. Out of New Orleans. Can you help me?”

“Yes, but if it was just an accident, why not call the police?” I suggested.

“No! They won’t believe me, Brutus. Is that honestly your name, by the way?”

“It’s on my birth certificate.”

“Brutus, I haven’t exactly been a perfect young lady all my life. I have a felony record. One of the convictions is for assault. I once hospitalized a girl I worked with. They will charge me with something over this. With my record an involuntary manslaughter conviction will put me away for years.”

“But if you flee, you’ll be a fugitive. Let’s consider the options. Does anyone else know about the accident?” I asked.

“Not yet.”

“So, let’s go examine the scene.”

“That will make you an accessory.”

“Noted.”

“You’re crazy.”

Nevertheless, Ophelia walked with me back to Esplanade. Inside the building I began to climb the stairs ahead of her.

“How do you know I live upstairs?” she asked.

“I just assumed. Are you on the first floor?”

“No.”

At the top of the stairs, I let her lead the rest of the way. She opened the apartment door and gasped as we entered. An exceptionally large stain of blood spread out on the area carpet around Frank’s head.

Not wanting to repeat the mistake of showing too much knowledge, I asked, “Does he live here?”

“No.”

“Does anyone know he is here tonight?”

“No, I don’t think so. Other tenants sometimes see him come and go, but they don’t even know his name.”

“Are you fond of that carpet?”

“It wouldn’t matter much if I were, would it?”

“What does he drive?” I asked.

“A silver Ram pick-up. It’s parked down the block.”

I reached in Frank’s pocket for his keys.

“Put on gloves, if you have them,” I instructed her. “Then bring the truck around front. Wait there. I’ll put him in back and drive him out to somewhere near where he lives.”

“Someone will see you carrying the body. And how do you know where he lives?”

“The address is on his license and registration. I’ll wrap him here in the carpet. It’s dark out. Most people don’t want to get involved even if they do see something odd. Trust me, I’ll be quick and inconspicuous. Wait out front with the engine running.”

She paused for several seconds, but then nodded. She found a pair of rubber gloves by the sink in the kitchenette. She put them on, took the truck keys from me, and left the apartment.

I rolled the body in the carpet and waited by the window until Ophelia parked the truck in front. I tossed the weight over my shoulders. Frank wasn’t a big man, but he was still pretty heavy. I didn’t know if I could extend invisibility around his body as well as my own, but I tried my best. The hallway was empty. I plodded down the steps to the front door and peeked outside. I waited for a pedestrian to pass and then exited with the cargo.

When I thumped the body into the bed of the truck, I saw Ophelia start behind the wheel.

I turned visible and opened the passenger door.

“I guess I’m distracted. I didn’t even see you,” she said.

“Good. This is what you have to do. First, go somewhere where you’re known. Call attention to the time somehow. In case the body is discovered and the coroner can place a time of death, we want to make sure you will not have had time to dump the body and get back to New Orleans. As soon as you establish your alibi, run right back and clean up the apartment. Oh, crap.”

“What?”

“He calls you on his cell phone, doesn’t he?”

“He uses a Trac Phone so his wife won’t find out.”

“So it’s anonymous. There’s a piece of luck,” I said.

“I’m not really feeling lucky.”

“You had better hurry off and be seen. Go.”

She got out of the truck and I slid behind the wheel. I pulled away from the curb as she watched from the sidewalk.

I drove out of town. At a desolate construction site I I got out of the truck, unrolled the body, and tossed the carpet into a dumpster. I searched the body and the truck for his Trac Phone. It was in the glove compartment. I smashed the phone and put the pieces in the dumpster, too. Then I searched for a seedy bar with a dark parking lot. I found an ideal one on the outskirts of Fat City. Its ill-lit lot abutted a water-filled drainage ditch. A surveillance camera outside the bar pointed at an angle that missed the far end of the lot. I backed into a spot away from the camera.

I waited while a patron left the bar, got on a motorcycle, and rode away. Then I quickly wiped the wheel of prints, exited the truck, and opened the tailgate. Frank’s right trouser leg had ridden up, and I saw a leg holster with his .25. I decided to leave it. I dragged the body out of the truck bed and rolled it into the drainage ditch. He would appear to be a victim of a fight in the bar parking lot. I heard splashes in the drainage ditch. Maybe a gator or two would assist by mangling the evidence further.

I closed the tailgate and walked to the nearest traffic light. I jumped into the bed of the first pickup pointed the right way and rode back to the city.

By the time I returned to Ophelia’s apartment, she was cleaning up the last visible traces of Frank’s presence.

“It will be alright,” I reassured her. “There is no reason for the police to trace the body back to you. Don’t feel bad for him either. He brought it on himself and you did his wife a favor.”

“Brutus, that’s terrible!”

“Maybe, but it’s true.”

She shook her head and smiled ruefully.

“It’s an old joke, isn’t it? ‘Friends are people who help you move. Best friends help you move the body.’”

“So we’re best friends?” I asked.

“More than friends.”

It may sound ruthless, but we made love in her apartment that night.

At 8:30 a.m. Ophelia pushed me awake. I groggily struggled to be observable.

“Were you under the covers or something?” she asked in a puzzled voice.

I could see sharing a bed overnight raised some issues.

“Uh, yeah. I do that.”

“Well, get up and get out. I have things to do this morning. I should go to work today later, too.”

“Yes, you’re right. Don’t break your routine in any way.”

I put on my clothes and allowed myself to be hustled out the door. Two of Ophelia’s neighbors on their way to work, nodded hello to me in the hall. I nodded back, keenly aware I was unshaven and disheveled after the night’s exertions.

I wondered if Ophelia knew I likely would be seen at this hour.

That afternoon, I left my room and walked to Chez. As soon as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I saw Ophelia sitting by herself at the far end of the bar. She waved me over.

“I’m having a drink with you because I usually do, but maybe you shouldn’t stay long,” she said.

“Why?” I asked.

“What if the police show up and ask questions?”

“They have no reason to.”

“What if they find one? Maybe you’re not as smart as you think, and you left clues behind. Maybe they’ll suspect you.”

“What do you mean?”

“You have a motive.”

“What motive?”

“Jealousy. And your prints are in my room. You told me to wear gloves in his truck, but did you?”

“I was careful. My fingerprints aren’t on file anywhere anyway.”

“I’ll bet you missed something, and they can match your prints if they take you in for questioning. I have witnesses last night to prove I couldn’t have driven the body anywhere in the right time frame.”

“Ophelia, are you threatening me?”

“I’m just telling you that, if push comes to shove, I can point a finger at you. You can’t hold what happened over my head.”

“It never crossed my mind to try.”

“Good. Don’t let it.” She softened her voice. “I’m not trying to be mean. I’m just scared.”

“It’s OK, but there is nothing to be afraid of. Can I see you tonight?”

“I’m going upstate to visit my sister for a few days.”

“You have a sister?”

“Yeah, my mother’s other daughter. I’ll be back on Thursday. You can come over then, and we’ll talk about our future.”

“Sounds intriguing.”

“I’ll see you in a few days.”

So, Ophelia was shaken and needed a little time with her family. Understandable. I would give her some space. Couples need to trust each other. That’s what I’ve always heard.

On Thursday I walked to Esplanade and rang the buzzer for her apartment. Through the rippled oval glass in the door I saw a gray-haired woman in horn rims approach.

“Mr. O’Malley?” she asked as she opened the door.

“Uh, no.”

“You’re not here to see the apartment?”

“I’m here to see Ophelia in 2B. She’s a friend.”

“Apparently not a close friend.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“She moved out a few days ago. Something about an illness in the family. She broke her lease but she paid through next month and signed off on the deposit, so I can’t be too upset with her.”

“I see.”

The police never connected Frank to her, to me, or to the apartment on Esplanade. Ophelia could have stayed and carried on as before, but with me instead of Frank. I guess she wanted to take no chances.

Where is she now? I don’t know. Surely not visiting her sister, if she has one.

No one ever will replace Ophelia. Other women don’t even see me.

October 22, 1962

Bong! Bong!

“Fire drill!” half the Fifth Grade class shouted at once. All 30 leapt to their feet, happy to leave schoolwork behind and rush outside into the fresh autumn air.

“Stay in your seats!” our teacher commanded loudly. “It’s not a fire drill! It’s a civil defense drill.”

To this day, I don’t know if there was any audible difference between a fire alarm and a Civil Defense alarm. Both used the same bells and, at the time, sounded alike to me. It is possible there were distinct patterns to the rings. It is also possible the faculty simply knew when Civil Defense drills were scheduled.

“Red Team, file into the hallway!”

At the beginning of every school year, each student was assigned to a team named after a color. During CD drills, the teams exited the classroom in the order of the colors of the rainbow.

“Orange team, file into the hallway!”

I was a member of the Orange team. We of the Orange team knew we were the best team, of course. Why? Just because. The vice principal stood at one end of the hallway in a commanding pose. I suppose the principal commanded the other wing of the two-wing school.

“Alright, line up against the walls and sit down,” she ordered. “You there! Not against the door! Against the wall! Shift to your left and make room!”

We sat on the floor with our backs against the concrete block walls of the hallway, as we had done on many drills before.

“Yellow team!” I heard our teacher shout inside the classroom.

The process continued until the last members of the purple team were situated in the hall. The interior hallway, we had been told, was the safest place in the event the shock wave from a hydrogen bomb shattered the windows of the classrooms and sent the glass flying. It also gave the best protection against radiation.

“Bend over and shield your eyes!” the vice principal ordered.

This was to protect our eyesight from the blinding flash of the explosion. In every drill, some wit inevitably would add, “and kiss your ass goodbye.” This never failed to cause hilarity among the students, no matter how often we heard it. The laughter was not in appreciation of the real dreadful irony, but for the use of the word “ass.” On this occasion, the jokester was some Eighth Grader named Wettel.

“Mr. Wettel, after the drill, see me in my office!”

Even at age nine (my tenth birthday was a month away) I doubted these drills were of any use. Still, they were more fun than sitting in class doing vocabulary drills or something else equally boring.

This particular bomb drill may or may not have been scheduled because of the fuss about missiles in Cuba. As I recall, drills were monthly events, more or less, so it might have been coincidence. The drill was over in ten short minutes, and we then filed back into our classrooms in reverse rainbow order. The rest of the school day was uneventful, and I boarded the school bus as usual at 3:10 PM.

There aren’t many meals from my childhood to which I can assign a specific date. Even the birthdays and Thanksgivings are mixed up in my mind when I remember them at all. However, for whatever reason, I just happen to remember dinner at home that night was spaghetti and meatballs, heavy on the pepper. Black pepper was a signature of my mom’s cooking. She assumed it compensated for any other shortcoming. In truth, she was not a very good cook, though I didn’t fully realize this until college, when I eagerly gorged on cafeteria food that made most other students blanch. At age nine, however, I was used to her kitchen handiwork and asked for a second helping.

This was years before video games, so after dinner I went outside to play with the dog, a Great Dane named Woody. Sometime before 7 PM, I came back in the house and rejoined the family in the den where we had the TV, a black-and-white steel-cased RCA with a beechwood-grain painted finish. My parents would not splurge on a color set until 1965. It hardly mattered. Nearly all programming was black-and-white. Movies, and only some of those, were the major exceptions.

President Kennedy came on at 7 PM and delivered an address that was widely regarded as masterful at the time, but which sounds stunningly naïve in retrospect. JFK recited a series of Soviet lies regarding nuclear missile sites in Cuba, which U.S. reconnaissance photos proved to be under construction. He roundly condemned the Soviet missile deployment. Then he delivered the punchline:

“To halt this offensive buildup, a strict quarantine on all offensive military equipment under shipment to Cuba is being initiated. All ships of any kind bound for Cuba from whatever nation and port will, if found to contain cargoes of offensive weapons, be turned back. This quarantine will be extended, if needed, to other types of cargo and carriers. We are not at this time, however, denying the necessities of life as the Soviets attempted to do in their Berlin blockade of 1948.”

My mom was appalled. “This could mean war,” she said. My dad simply said, “Huh.” My sister said, “I haven’t graduated from grammar school yet.”

I didn’t believe there was a remote possibility of war, and assumed my mother was being melodramatic. (I might not have known the word, but I knew the concept.) I employed no precocious analytical skills to arrive at this conclusion. I simply had a nine-year-old’s trust in adults. It was inconceivable that they would do anything really stupid over Cuba. I saw no threat to Sharon’s grammar school graduation.

Only years later, when reading accounts of the crisis by participants, did I discover that my mom’s immediate reaction was the right one. The world truly had teetered on war.

My dad was a home builder. Several of the houses he constructed in the late 50s and early 60s sported bomb shelters. The most common type was a simple basement room with concrete walls, floor and ceiling, and with a baffled entrance – radiation does not go around corners. A couple buyers ordered steel doors, however, presumably because people do go around corners and they can be more dangerous than radiation. Present day owners of these houses tend to use the shelters as wine cellars.

I still own a disturbing government pamphlet from the era called The Family Fallout Shelter. The pamphlet contains plans for all types of shelters, some tiny and makeshift, and others roomy and elaborate with self-contained generators, plumbing, and air filters. The pamphlet maps expected radiation hazards after an attack. Ambient radiation, it says, will drop to safe levels in two weeks, even in targeted metropolitan areas, but individual artifacts in those areas might be dangerous for much longer. Cartoon illustrations show a family of four cheerfully going about daily life in the shelter. Despite all this, there was no fallout shelter in our own home in 1962.

The day after the President’s blockade speech, my mother carried bottles of water and cans of food into an alcove of the basement that was the best protected part of the house. She made only a few trips from the kitchen to the basement and then suddenly stopped.

“This is stupid. It’ll never be OK,” she said by way of explanation.

I suppose she meant that surviving thermonuclear war would take more than some jars of water and cans of beans. She had a point.

Khrushchev and Kennedy each took a step back from the brink on October 28, and the Cuban crisis abated.

My mother never again stored emergency supplies of any kind in the basement, but she never brought back up the few things she had put there either. For some reason, it never occurred to me to touch them then or later. They were still there when my parents sold the house 17 years later. Perhaps they are there still.

Reap the Whirlwind

The second hand on the big wall clock crawled its way to vertical and then leaned to the right. The 3:00 PM bell rang, seven seconds late by 10-year-old Cooper’s reckoning. Cooper leapt to his feet and joined the rush to the Fifth Grade classroom door. Miss Verckler’s daily admonition to “exit in an orderly manner” went unheeded as always.

Cooper joined the noisy K-8 students swarming down the hallway toward the school doors. Naterville Elementary was the only school he ever had attended, and he expected to stay through the Eighth Grade. A new Middle School had been approved by the Naterville town council, as Cooper well knew from the complaints from his father about the school taxes, but it wouldn’t open until 1966. By then Cooper and his classmates would be in high school. He pushed his way through the double doors into the fresh air. It was blustery Indiana day in October, 1962.

Cooper loved Fridays. The school week lay safely behind and a whole weekend stretched ahead. This Friday was especially welcome. All week it had been Cuba this and Cuba that. At first it was exciting because teachers said there might be a war. There even was a Civil Defense drill on Tuesday, and those always were fun.

Cooper and his friends talked excitedly about nuclear war. They decided it would be cool, provided Naterville wasn’t a target, of course. It didn’t seem likely it would be, unless enemy bombers and missiles missed Indianapolis or Camp Atterbury. The boys spent lunchtimes and recesses discussing bomber types, fighter aircraft, rockets, warships, and megatonnage with the same fluency they once had reserved for dinosaur nomenclature. They made colorful pencil and crayon drawings of warplanes and mushroom clouds, and showed them off to each other.

There was a special place in Cooper’s heart for the Mach 3 XB70 bomber. Cooper had assembled a model of one in the basement recreation room at home. It was gleaming white with wicked decals. It now stood on a clear acrylic stand on the bureau in his bedroom. He often told his friends the Defense Department had made a grave error by cancelling the aircraft. They didn’t argue with him, but Freddy usually commented that the B58 was nearly as fast. Freddy had built a model of it and kept it in his bedroom.

As the week had worn on, the excitement had worn off. Nothing of importance actually seemed to be happening in Cuba. By Thursday even war talk with the boys became boring. By Friday he didn’t want to hear another word about Cuba or missiles.

Cooper walked away from the buses and toward the woods that flanked the school grounds.

“Hey Coop! Where’re you going?”

The source of the question was a freckled redhead named Katie. She seemed to like Cooper, which mystified him. She was cute in her own way, but he was unsure how to act with her. He was at the peculiar transition age when associating with a girl would catch him grief from the boys, even though the boys sometimes shared stolen Playboy magazines and snickered over them together.

Cooper looked nervously around and was relieved that none of his friends was in sight.

“To Balboa,” Cooper answered.

The woods next to the school were called “Balboa” by the kids for as long as anyone remembered. He never met anyone who could tell him why, but he had an idea of his own. Cooper knew from Social Studies class that Balboa was an explorer who had discovered the Pacific Ocean. A small pond was located some 50 feet inside the tree line of the woods. Coop guessed that some long-ago student had stumbled on the waters and named the whole place after the fellow. The name passed down the same way the ditty about “no more teachers, no more books” does.

School administrators forbad students from entering the woods during school hours, but, of course, they did it anyway. At recess the woods teemed with them.

“Why are you going there?” she asked.

Cooper had explained why to Katie many times before.
“You know I like to walk home through the woods sometimes,” he said.

The school bus ride to his house took only five minutes, but Cooper preferred to walk through the woods whenever it wasn’t raining or snowing. On inclement days he would climb the bus even though the driver would yell at him about his frequent absences. Cooper ignored her complaints. Had the driver explained, “Look, I’m required to do a head count, so at least tell me when you’re walking,” he would have understood. She never deigned to explain, so he never bothered to appease.

The walk through the woods was easy thanks to an old abandoned railroad bed that ran through it. The tracks had been sold for scrap years earlier, but the bed still made a fine walking path. Best of all, it ran directly in back of his backyard a few miles from the school.

“Want me to walk with you?” Katie asked.

Cooper thought about it. The idea was appealing on one level, but the news would be sure to get out and he would take a ribbing from the boys.

“Nah, I don’t want you to get in trouble with the bus driver.”

“OK, I’ll tell her you’re walking.”

“OK.”

“Do you have a costume for Halloween yet?” she asked.

“Uh, no.”

She paused for moment before saying, “Well, OK. See you Monday, Coop.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Cooper walked away. He had almost forgotten about Halloween. He’d have to think of something cool instead of some stupid kid’s costume.

Cooper entered the woods, circled around the pond to the railroad bed, and strode along the path with his thumbs hooked in his pockets. A breeze rustled the tree branches and stirred up leaves matting the path. Few of the leaves were left on the trees, and all of those were brown and dry. Only a week earlier they had been red and yellow. Cooper picked up a stick and wielded it like a sword, stabbing at foes in the form of bushes and slicing off twigs as though they were fingers. He swished the stick as he walked.

A rabbit hopped into the path ahead. To Cooper’s surprise it didn’t leap away as he approached. He was nearly upon it before it hopped a few steps into a forsythia bush. Cooper poked his stick into the bush, which was a tangle of bare twigs in this season. He held the point of the stick less than an inch away from the rabbit. It didn’t move. Cooper decided not to prod the animal. He withdrew the stick and walked onward.

The wind picked up and the sky darkened. Cooper always liked a menacing sky. It was cool-looking. He hoped the rain would hold off until he got home. He quickened his pace. The sky continued to dim for the next mile.

Through the trees to his right he caught a glimpse of a brick Cape Cod. This was Katie’s house. Cooper stopped and looked. He wondered if she was home already. He then wondered if she was looking out her window toward the woods. He resumed his walk.

A bright flash startled Cooper. He jumped when a loud boom followed a second later. The lightning strike had been close. The thought ran through his mind that an H-Bomb would look and sound much the same. He pretended the war had come. His stick morphed from a sword into an M14 rifle. He was a soldier on patrol in the aftermath of nuclear war. He lived off the land, sometimes venturing into empty cities like the ones in the movie On the Beach. What was missing from the simulation of a Bomb, he reflected, was a shock wave. He had seen film clips on TV of A-Bomb tests. The shock waves were wicked. They bent trees and destroyed houses filled with dummies.

The leaves stopped swirling as the air went still. Cooper felt a change of pressure in his ears. The wind sprang back suddenly. Airborne leaves and other small debris swatted him in the face.

“Shock wave!” he pretended happily.

A low rumbling sound intensified quickly into a deafening roar. Cooper left the ground. He flew through the air and was caught by a bare bush like the one in which the rabbit had hidden. A dogwood tree toppled onto him and pinned him there. Nearby trees tore out of the ground and flew away. Cooper screamed but couldn’t hear his own voice. Then, suddenly, he could.

Cooper stopped shouting. The woods were quiet. Whistles went off in the distance. He squirmed from the dogwood and out of the bush, tearing his trousers in the process. He was scratched and sore but not seriously hurt. Cooper hurried down the path, scrambling over fallen trees. The route seemed much longer than it ever had before.

At last he approached his backyard. Would his house even be there? It was so unfair. What had the idiots with their Bombs done? He wondered if Katie’s house was destroyed, too. He pushed through the brush next to the rusty swing set that stood at the rear edge of his parents’ property. A Labrador named Goldie ran up to him enthusiastically. His house looked intact. So did the neighboring houses.

Cooper’s mother looked relieved when he rushed in the back door and shouted “Hello!”

“I’m so glad you’re home. Do you know what happened?” she asked. “What happened to your pants? Are you alright?”

“I was knocked into some bushes. I tore my pants.”

“Oh, that’s too close. Are you sure you’re OK?”

“Yeah. How bad is it? Do we have to go to the basement?” he asked.

“No, they’ve passed.”

“Passed?”

“The tornadoes have passed. The radio says there is still a watch, but that could last for hours. We’re not likely to get another one.”

“Oh.”

“Dinner will be ready in half an hour.”

“OK.”

Cooper went to his room to change his pants. He figured he could brag at school about being in the tornado. He could dress up the story big-time for Katie. He could say he flew for hundreds of feet. The scar in the woods was proof enough. It wasn’t as cool as surviving a Bomb would have been, of course. He imagined being a sole survivor after a war – or maybe Katie could be there, too, like in the movie The Last Woman on Earth. There would be no boys to tease him about it.

He picked up and fondled his XB70 model. The Defense Department made a real mistake when it canceled the project.

Wings

As a boy, I seldom missed the 1956 Japanese monster movie Rodan when it aired on TV. Considering the film’s budget and the available technology, many of the effects are remarkable. The miniatures are very detailed, and one scene of a bridge collapse is impressive even by today’s standards. Within the same movie, other effects are cheesy. They include a man in a rubber suit crushing toy tanks. For all its flaw, it is a monster movie, and in my preteens I lived for those. Presently, I own the DVD of Rodan and, when in a particularly nostalgic mood, put it on – or at least I did prior to today. After this morning’s events I doubt I’ll ever watch it again.

With the onset of middle age, I struggle to keep pounds at bay. My latest weapon in the battle of the belly is the bicycle. After years of disuse, the very bike I owned as a teenager is back on the road. Only a few drops of oil and grease put it back into shape. Putting me into shape is taking a little longer. On weekends I join my younger and much more athletic friend David pedaling the 20 mile circuits he prefers. I’d prefer fewer miles, but I don’t like admitting this to David. I guess that is no longer an issue.

It all began this morning when David had gotten far ahead of me, as he often did, and circled while I caught up. It was a brisk and sunny autumn morning, and we both were enjoying the scenery of grassy fields and horse farms on each side of Lamington Road in Bedminster, NJ. No sooner had I caught up to Dave when a rapidly moving shadow caught my eye. I looked up and saw a giant pterodactyl. We both stopped and stared.

“That isn’t possible,” I said.

“There it is.”

“It must be a model or something.”

“If so, it’s a really big model.”

Maybe it’s a mocked-up airplane with someone inside flying it.”

“Maybe, but who would build one? It looks pretty realistic,” Dave observed.

“Maybe it’s a publicity stunt for a new movie.”

“Expensive stunt.”

“Yeah.”

The pterodactyl executed a vast sweeping turn, descending to near treetop level as it did so. We got a better sense of the scale of the thing.

“It’s the size of a 737,” Dave said. “If it’s a machine, it’s the most lifelike reconstruction I’ve ever seen. And it’s quiet. Do you hear any engines?”

“No, but it can’t be real. There aren’t any of those things alive. Where could they breed and not be noticed?”

“We’re noticing it now. Um, it’s headed our way.”

“This can’t be happening,” I insisted.

Whether it was hatched from an egg or a factory, neither of us wanted to be in its way. We jumped off our bikes and flattened ourselves on the road. The tip of an enormous talon raked Dave’s back. He shrieked. The turbulence from the creature’s flyby lifted our bikes and tossed them twenty yards. I ran over to David. His back was a bloody mess. Through his shredded shirt I could see vertebrae.

“Let’s get out of here!”

Cars and trucks had pulled off the road. Their occupants looked up at the sky. The thing swept another long arc. David ran to his bike and jumped on it.

“No, it may go after you.”

He ignored me. Though he must have been in tremendous pain, he pedaled away faster than I ever saw him go before. I hit the pavement again as huge shadow raced toward me. The shadow passed and I looked up in time to see a spray of red as David, or at least most of him, disappeared into the thing’s beak. I stared dumbfounded at what was left with the bicycle.

A Ford F150 weaved along the road and pulled off to the side. The driver jumped out of the truck and removed a Remington 700 from a tool box in back of the cab. Working the bolt expertly, he unloaded five rounds in quick succession at the thing. To my surprise this appeared to have an effect, though I doubted it was more than minor stings. The beast began another wide turn.

If David was the appetizer, I had no wish to be the main meal, so I jumped the three-rail fence by the side of the road and ran toward the closest building, which was a horse barn. I heard a crash. I glanced back and saw the roof of the F150 had been crushed down onto the seat. The shattered windshield was blown out. The shooter was nowhere to be seen.

How was this possible? Wild thoughts raced through my mind as my feet raced toward the barn. The previous evening I had watched a DVD of Forbidden Planet, the classic 1956 science fiction movie in which a character unknowingly projects his dreams into real forms. Was the pterodactyl this kind of observer-created reality on a grand scale? Had I, perhaps, called it into existence by remembering those old Rodan movies? Yet, even in Forbidden Planet, the monsters were made real only with the help of a vast machine that assembled energy and matter. I didn’t own one of those. Was there someone in the world who did own one – or who didn’t need one? Did I need one?

I looked back and saw the pterodactyl swinging toward me. Though my lungs and legs already hurt, I redoubled my exertions. The shadow was over me when I reached the open barn door and dove inside. The thing flew over the barn close enough to send shingles flying in its wake. Panting, I struggled to my feet and staggered to the back exit of the barn. I watched a shadow grow over a horse galloping in the pasture. Talons grabbed the horse. The horse lifted several feet into the air but then came back down as the pterodactyl settled to the ground. I didn’t stay to observe it consumed its meal.

The wise thing would have been to remain inside, but fear got the better of me. Hoping the beast would be busy with the horse for a while, I hurried back to my bike and cycled away. I constantly glanced around for a shadow, but I saw no more of the beast on the way home.

As I pedaled, I considered another explanation for what was happening. Instead of making my dreams real, maybe I was just plain old dreaming. This was an incredibly realistic dream, true enough, complete with strong smells and stinging pain. Yet, it seemed the most logical answer.

On the news this evening, the pterodactyl is all the newspeople can talk about. No one knows where the thing came from or where it went. The pterodactyl appeared and then it disappeared. Most “experts” (though how there can be an expert on such a thing is beyond me) are calling it a hoax, even though dozens of observers have taken clear photographs and motion pictures. Besides, there are two human fatalities and a dead horse to explain.

I’m increasingly convinced that my guess about the the dream is right. This just has to be one, even though hours have passed and nothing I do is waking me up. I’m thinking that if I fall asleep in this dream, maybe I’ll wake up in real life. So, I’ll put on a movie to relax. This time of night I always doze off in front of the TV.

I see The Howling is on HBO. I’ve always enjoyed werewolf movies.

The Final Conquest

On my first day (September 8, 1964) at St.Bernard’s School in Gladstone, N.J., I was not only the youngest student in Form I (Seventh Grade), but the youngest student on the entire campus. I was always the youngest in my class throughout my six years there. In May 2010 at an all-class reunion, I was the oldest alumnus on the entire campus; no other member of my class or any previous one showed up during the hour I was present; perhaps a few did later, perhaps not. (Class of 85 was the big turn-out.) It was not an altogether welcome reversal.

During my 2010 visit I chatted with current faculty for a short time in the Hockenbury Center. The building didn’t exist during my schooldays, though I knew Russell Hockenbury well enough. I then left the building and strolled on familiar paths. One of them took me past Founders Hall. Built in 1909, Founders Hall is the sort of red brick building that belongs on a prep school campus and nowhere else. In May 1970 it was the scene of the Great Porch Riot. There porch scuffles every year of my attendance, but only two of them could be called (with some exaggeration) riots. The one in 1970 was the biggest. To my knowledge there hasn’t been another one since.

In 1970, St. Bernard’s was a nominally Episcopalian boys school of 120 students. It was backward-looking and proud of it. One anachronistic feature in the 69-70 year was a privileged Senior Class, a sort of artificial aristocracy. There was not a general Student Council, but a Senior Council elected only by Seniors. Other perquisites were a Senior Lounge, a Senior Porch, and even a Senior Parking Lot. Naturally, Senior privileges rankled underclassmen. The Senior Porch on the front of Founders Hall was the most visible of them and the one most tempting. Underclassmen therefore raided the Senior Porch at some point each year in a symbolic overthrow of the Old Order. The raids always began spontaneously.

During my Senior year on a sunny warm day in May, I stood on the Senior Porch and leaned against a white round column. The aroma of freshly cut grass was in the air. Underclassmen milled amid the apple trees on the lawn between Founders Hall and Conover House. I don’t remember the precise date or day of the week, but it was neither a Wednesday nor a Friday, because I wore a tie and jacket but not the school blazer – the dress code varied by weekday. One of the juniors suddenly threw down his books, let out a “Whoop!” and charged the steps of the Senior Porch. Scores of other underclassmen rushed to join the assault. Seniors rapidly formed a defensive line at the steps.

“U.L.F.!” some of the attackers shouted, which stood for Underclassmen Liberation Front.

Seniors also rushed onto the porch and put up a stubborn defense, but were heavily outnumbered. Younger students flew bodily over the rails onto the lawn, but kept running back up the steps. Two Seniors retreated into Founders and emerged onto the porch roof armed with a water-filled fire extinguisher and a bucket of water. The cascade of water from above briefly restored the Senior hold on the steps, but it was too late. The masses of Forms I through V flowed over the rails onto the porch. The Seniors fell back and the U.L.F. claimed victory.

“BREAK IT UP NOW!” shouted Mr Tilghman, the headmaster, as he hurried toward the porch from Conover House. The students scattered.

No one was punished for the episode afterward, not even the water specialists on the roof.

After my graduation, the special privileges of Seniors were revoked. St. Bernard’s merged with Gill, becoming co-ed and K – 12 in the process. The educational and social philosophy of the school morphed into something less 19th century.

Little did the underclassmen know on day in May 1970 that their victory really did mark the end of the Old Order.

Nondomestic

The animal control officer nearly caught me! I have to be more careful.

Too bad the gig at the old lady’s house had to end so soon. Who would have thought the she would die on me? Next time I should pick someone younger – but not too young either. I don’t want some kid dressing me in doll clothes.

Most people will let me inside if I act hungry and kiss up to them with a lot of fake purring. Getting outside again sometimes can be a problem. I just barely got away from the person before last. She was a self-described “animal lover,” which meant her house was full of dogs, cats, fish, and birds. If I’d known, I’d never have scratched on her door in the first place. Other cats in particular disturb me. Naturally, I’m not opposed to some playtime with a willing molly, but none of hers were willing. All the other cats were neutered, and she had plans to do the same to me. When I heard her making an appointment with the vet for me, I plucked a screen off a window and scrammed.

I could live off the land, but I hate outside life. Game meats aren’t my thing. You think mice, rats, and raw birds are tasty? You try them. Fur and feathers get in your mouth. Disgusting. I like a nice warm bed, too.

I’ve tried living in barns, bur they aren’t not much better than outside. My first home after splitting from the lab was a stable. The stable manager put dry food in a dish, but not enough. The other barn toms wouldn’t let me near it. I’m a thinker, not a fighter.

Being a thinker is what got me into trouble in the first place. It is why I’ll never go back to the laboratory. It wasn’t enough for the mad scientists there to make me what I am by blending human brain cells with feline ones. No, they wanted to cut open brain and look at it. That’s really what they said. They didn’t realize I understood. The two kinds of brain cells somehow interacted synergistically to make me far smarter than they ever dreamed. They had no clue how I educated myself at night when no one was around.

Thanks for the brain, guys, but, no, you can’t have it back.

On a laundry pick-up day at the lab, I opened my cage – any moron could figure out that latch – and hid in an outgoing laundry basket with the lab coats and towels. The laundry man wheeled me out to his van and lifted the whole basket into the back. I peeked out from under a lab coat. The van interior had no interior dividers. So, I simply jumped out the open driver’s side window.

Fortunately, the lab is out in the countryside in Arkansas, of all places, so it was easy to hide in the fields and woods. I avoided the first a few houses I saw. I was worried the lab techs would look for me in the immediately neighboring properties. That’s when I found the stable. Since then, it’s been one home after another. All I really want is a cozy place to sleep, regular meals, a clean litter box, and a big picture window with a view. Hey, I told you I was smart. I’ve found it more than once, but sooner or later something always goes wrong.

Oh well. No sense crying over spilled milk.

I’ve considered communicating with people on their own level. Vocalizing human speech is somewhere between painful and impossible with my oral architecture, but I could tap on a keyboard or something. I’m just afraid that will get me sent back to the lab pronto, and I like my brain where it is, thank you very much.

What have we here? It’s a middle age man burying his dog. I don’t see any other dog or any cats. This has possibilities. No sign of swingsets or other kids’ toys. The yard is a mess. He must not be married. From his truck I see he does “drywall,” whatever that is. He must be lonely. He probably misses the dog already. Someone like this is likely to feed me but not fuss over me too much. He’ll let me go in and out as I please and won’t bother with any vets. I’ll go rub around his feet.

He is saying the words I want to hear.

“Where did you come from, puss? Where do you belong? Are you hungry? OK, maybe I’ve got some tuna.”

Wake Up Call

On September 2, 2006, my 20-pound cat “Mini” leapt off the bed as the telephone jangled loudly. Her feet thumped across the oak floor as she ran to the far end of the house. I opened my eyes. My other cat, a 12-pounder named “Maxi,” remained on the bed, but he was staring at me with an annoyed expression. I knew how he felt.

The face of the digital clock was turned away from me, but by the light outside the window, I knew it couldn’t be much later than 5 o’clock in the morning. I reached over and unplugged the wire from the telephone. I still could hear the phone in the kitchen, but the rings were muffled enough to ignore.

I lived alone. I was divorced. No kids. No Significant Other. My parents had died several years earlier, a year apart from each other. My sister had died of lymphoma in 1995. The call couldn’t possibly be from someone who was my responsibility. Whatever anyone wanted to say to me at 5 a.m. could wait.

Besides, I assumed the caller was either my ex-wife Sandy or her boyfriend Derek. Sandy and I had divorced 5 years earlier, but remained on speaking terms. For the past several months, after years of relative sobriety, she once again had sunk into substance abuse and was apt to call at any time of the day or night. There was nothing I wanted to discuss with her at 5 a.m. Derek, a musician who was equally insensible of the clock, liked to bemoan his hopeless love affair to anyone he thought might listen, including, sometimes, me. I didn’t want to hear any more about this either. I put my head on my pillow and dozed off again.

My next conscious moment was when Maxi tapped my face with a paw. I opened an eye. The room was brighter. Black with a white spot on his chest, Maxi always wanted out in the morning. I got up and followed him to the back door. The kitchen clock read 7:30. As the door shut after the Maxi, I heard a squeak behind me. Mini didn’t want out. As usual, she wanted to be fed.

While I dumped a can of 9-Lives tuna into the cat dish, the kitchen phone rang. I picked it up on the fifth ring.

“Hey, this is Ellis!” the caller shouted.

“Ellis?”

“Sandy’s friend. I’m calling from Derek’s house. You gotta get down here! It’s an emergency!”

“What emergency?” I asked skeptically. I was sure the word didn’t apply. Neither Sandy nor Derek was my problem.

I remembered Ellis, though. I had met him briefly in early August after Sandy had called me in the middle of the night from East Orange while she was being arrested. It was neither her first nor her last encounter with the police after falling off the wagon. She wanted me me to pick up Keanu, her big Bernese Mountain Dog, which was in her car with her. Ellis, a soft-spoken, tall, muscular, 30-ish black man who was a friend of Derek, also had been in the car with her. (I don’t know and didn’t ask where Derek was.) The police had nothing on which to hold Ellis, who lived nearby, so he walked Keanu along the sidewalk until I arrived to pick up the dog. I returned Keanu when Sandy was released.

“It’s Sandy, man! They set the place on fire!” Ellis shouted over the phone.

“Who? What place?”

“Her apartment!”

Sandy had rented an apartment in Newark in July.

“Is she OK?” I asked.

“She’s dead, man!”

“Oh crap.”

“You gotta get down here. She’s probably at the university hospital.”

“I thought you said she was dead.”

“I don’t know for sure. The house was on fire. I ran over and asked a fireman if a white woman was in there. He said no, but maybe he just didn’t know. Her truck is parked on the street and she doesn’t answer her phone."

“OK, I’ll go the hospital”

“Pick me up. I’m at Derek’s.”

“OK, I’ll pick up you and Derek.”

“Just me. Derek’s in jail.”

“Why?”

“Beats me. Lucky for him, though. He probably would have been in the fire, too.”

“Yeah. I’ll be there in an hour.”

I decided that if I was headed toward a crime scene, it would be wise to bring company. I dialed my friend Ken. Ken answered groggily.

“Ken, I just got a call. Sandy may have died last night. I’m going to Newark to check the hospital.”

“Damn. Sorry, Rich. Would you like some company?”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m calling. I would appreciate it.”

“Pick me up on the way.”

“Will do.”

A large part of me rejected the possibility that anything catastrophic had happened to Sandy. It was out of character. Sandy had skipped along the edge of cliffs for most of her life, but always walked away safely. I regarded her as indestructible. I even had made a bad joke only two days earlier to my friend Sheryl which I now regretted. I had said, “After a nuclear war, the only survivors will be cockroaches and Sandy.”

Ken met me in the parking lot of the apartment complex where he lived in Parsippany. We headed to Derek’s house.

Derek’s father opened the door of his homey Cape on a suburban street in Union. He shook his head and waved us inside. Ellis sat in an easy chair in the living room.

“Why is Derek in jail?” I asked.

“He missed a court date,” his father said.

Ellis, Ken, and I got into my Jeep Cherokee and headed to the hospital. I parked on the street and we walked to a corner entrance.

The woman at the reception desk had no information about Sandra. Instead, another woman in a security guard uniform told us to go to the police station next to the Essex County Courthouse.

The police station in Newark is an old building straight out of Barney Miller. The sergeant at the front desk directed us up to the third floor.

“Speak to a Detective Muhammad,” he said.

As the elevator doors opened onto the third floor, Ken smiled at the traffic signs in the hallway. One large arrow said “Robberies” and another pointing the opposite way said “Homicides.”

“Life in Newark,” Ken said, and he snapped a picture of the signs with his cell phone.

I asked a passing officer where to find Detective Muhammad. He pointed in the “Homicides” direction. This wasn’t looking good.

**** **** **** **** ****

A few days after the unwelcome wake-up call, I walked down the dark aisle of yet another horse barn. The clapping of my shoes on the concrete floor echoed inside. In the fourth stall on the right stood a 15 hand bay facing away from me.

“Hey Buddy!” I called to him.

The horse huffed in recognition and came to the door to have his nose petted. Buddy Love was Sandy’s personal horse. Six years earlier he had lived in our back yard. I didn’t see much of him after the divorce, but he still knew who I was.

Sandy had mentioned to me a few months earlier that she had moved her horse to a barn in Montville. The question was where. Montville is a pretty big place. There was little choice but methodically to check one stable after another in order to find him. On this occasion, method succeeded.

There were two barns on this property. I left Buddy and checked the other barn, hoping to find the owner or manager. I encountered a young woman who was neither, but who gave me the owner’s number.

“Buddy Love belonged to my ex, Sandra. She was killed the other day,” I explained.

“I know. We read about it in the papers,” she said. “Actually, Buddy is the barn owner’s horse, because Sandra hasn’t paid her board in months.”

“I see. Well, I’ll still talk to her.”

Sandy had given riding lessons until her life began to spiral down at the end of 2005. Tim, the father of two of Sandy’s former students, had called me after reading about the shooting, and said he was interested in Buddy if I knew where he was.

As it turned out, the barn owner was willing to sell Buddy to him for the amount of the back expenses. Buddy Love, at least, found contentment and green pastures.


Postscript--

Excerpt New York Times 9/17/2006: “Authorities in Newark, piecing together the events that led to a triple homicide in the Vailsburg neighborhood over Labor Day weekend, have arrested one of the three suspects.”