The Forging Page 17

  What part do these men play in my dream? Their whispering to each other is muddled, and I can’t make out the words. There is another person on the street, too. He was dragging a large trash bag with him. He is moving slowly, checking the recycle bins for cans and plastic. It’s a tough way to make a few dollars. If I don’t find another job soon, I might be doing the same thing.

  The stars are out tonight, and I watched them for a time. Wonders in the dark. I have always marveled at the heavens. In another life and at another time, I wanted to join the ranks of astronauts. It is a dream I had from the earliest time I could remember.

  My mother, the ever so practical woman, said “Nathan, darling, it’s not realistic to want to be an astronaut. Why thousands and thousands of men try for those jobs. Why don’t you think of something else you would like to do?” Even if I didn’t have a perfect memory, I would remember the heartbreak at hearing those words coming from the most important person in my life. My reply is clear in my memory, as well.

  “Mom, you shouldn’t take a man’s dreams away from him.” Those were wise words coming from a four-year-old. The will to stick to my dream left with those cruel words. My mother took my dream and threw it on the ground. She put on her tap shoes and did a Flamenco dance on it. Oh well, should-a, could-a, would-a.

  The homeless guy had passed the car with the two men in it. Turning back to the house, as I walked, I heard four sharp barks. They had the familiar muffling all sound has in this kind of dream. Startled, I turned to see where the noises came from. Both men in the car are slumped over, and blood is splattered all over the windshield. The homeless guy was running down the street.

  Waking with a start, I asked myself, “Did I hear something? Oh, it must have been the TV.” I switched it off, and I went to check on Mo. She is as I had left her. My wife and Ms. Barton are okay too. With my rounds completed, I settled down in the recliner with Blossom on my lap.

  The alarm went off. Mo woke up, and I told her to get ready for school. I made breakfast for everyone in the house, Ms. Barton included. With breakfast in hand, I brought it to the hospice nurse.

  “Thank you, Mr. Embers, but I have my own food.” She pointed to an Igloo lunch box.

  “Oh, this is better than anything you could have brought. Come on, give it a try. If you don’t like it, flush it down the toilet. I’ll never know the difference.”

  “Very well,” she took the plate of food from me and ate a forkful. By the change in her expression, she must be pleasantly surprised at the taste. I do one mean breakfast if I do say so myself. And I do say.

  Mo, with backpack, brown paper sack lunch, and me in hand walked out to wait for the bus. Something is happening down the block. There are police cars, a police van, and an ambulance. There are so many flashing red and blue lights if a person living with epilepsy lives on this block, they better stay inside today.

  From my vantage point, I couldn’t see the commotion. I am blocked by a crowd of people. Then there was a break in the crowd long enough for me to get a look. I could see a dark-colored sedan with a large splatter of blood on the windshield and two gurneys with body bags on them being loaded into the ambulance. The world is spinning. My head exploded with an instant headache. What is happening to me? Oh God, I can’t take anymore.

  “Daddy, are you okay?” Moiraine asked with the sound of tears in her voice.

  My daughter’s voice stirred resolve in me. No choice, I must take more. Quickly, I subdued the headache with my little trick. “It won’t last long.” There I am on the ground. “Yes, Mo, I am fine. Daddy slipped.” She helped me back up.

  “You scared me. I thought some mean man had hurt you too.”

  How true her words are. A mean man, an evil man, had hurt me. He hurt me more deeply than any bullet could penetrate. He sliced away a part of me more than any knife could. For what armor can protect a man from a shadow blade to the heart? Moiraine’s school bus is about to arrive, so I had to put my musings on the back burner. She boarded the bus and bid her goodbye for the day.

  No time to dawdle, because my dreaded task awaits. The ritual of showering, shaving, and dressing is mind-numbing today. The dark suit fit reasonably well. We never had it tailored, because of money and I don’t wear it often. Once I finished dressing, I took a hard look at myself in the mirror. An aged man looked back. The memory of myself before all this tragedy entered our lives, compared little to the vision in the mirror. Dark circles had invaded the space around my eyes. The wrinkles I had noted are beginning to be more pronounced. The skin of my face is sagging on my skull. Not only have I aged, but I look hard. “Dear God, please let me be hard enough for today.”

  My cell phone went off. It is Detective Frank Hawkins. I let him talk to my voicemail. There are more pressing things to do today than to talk to him. My phone went off again. It is Frank again. He sure is a persistent little bastard. I turned my phone off. No interruptions. In case I needed to make a call, I grabbed my wife’s phone and put it in my pocket.

  “Ms. Barton, I am leaving for the better part of the day. Here is a number where you can reach me if there is a change in my wife’s condition. My father-in-law, John, will be here later to see to my daughter.”

  Everything on my to-do list is done. It is time to set off for my destination. Twenty minutes later, I arrived. The limousine is already waiting for me. Standing next to the limo is a young man in his early twenty’s. He is wearing the classic black uniform of a limousine driver, hat included.

  The driver tipped his hat and opened the door for me, “Are we waiting for anyone else, sir?”

  As I climbed into the back of the limousine, I said, “No, only me.”

  “Very good, sir. Do you need to make any stops before we head to the destination?”

  “A drive down the coastal route and seeing the ocean would be soothing. Will we have enough time?”

  The driver looked at his watch. “I’ll make time, sir.” He closed the door then took up his spot behind the wheel. He started the engine and rolled down the window between the front and back seats. “There is a full bar in the cabin. Please feel free to have a drink if you like. Would you like me to turn on some music?”

  What a question to ask a walking iPod. “No, thank you. Not to be rude, but I would like to make this drive in quiet solitude.”

  “As you wish, sir.” The driver rolled the window back up and gave me my privacy. We started to move.

  This is my first limo ride. I had to admit it is pleasant. The atmosphere is both reserved and lush. The ride is quiet and smooth. The thought of not having to deal with traffic made my blood pressure drop a few points. Yes, if I ever win a lottery for a butt load of money, I’m getting a driver. Of course, for this to happen, I need to buy a lottery ticket first. But I’m just saying… We are out of the city traveling north on the I-5. I looked out the window to my left and could see the Pacific Ocean. Well, part of it at least. The hazy grey of the mornings here in Southern California spoiled the view a bit. The sun would burn off the haze soon enough. The ride back promised a better, clearer view.

  Normally a long car ride would give rise to indulge in some memory replay. Not today. Not this drive. I need to be here in mind, spirit, and intent. Silently and alone, I watched the coast go by. Being alone now is a portent of my life to come. Charlene is dying and soon would be gone. For me to even envision marrying another woman, is wrong. Charlene would be one hard act to follow. I would have Moiraine in my life, but our time together is counting down. Similar to John saying goodbye to his little girl when Char and I wed I too will someday see Moiraine leave my home to build her own. To let a daughter go is the ultimate demonstration of a father’s love.

  The limo came to a stop, and the driver lowered the privacy window, “We have arrived, sir.” The driver came around and opened the door for me. I got out and looked around at the park-like setting.

  We are at the top of a hill which looked out over the entire cemetery. I am here to bury my son. The
thought burned in my mind and across my heart.

  It is a relatively small facility. I knew this location was perfect right from the moment I saw pictures of it, but the photographs did not do it justice. It feels peaceful. A gentle breeze touched my face. About twenty yards away stands a white cross at least twelve feet tall. In the opposite direction is a large oak tree which offers shade to visitors. All-around on the graves, which spread out before me, you could see flowers of every variety also dotting the landscape are small American flags. In another section of the graveyard, another funeral is taking place. Dozens of mourners saying their last goodbyes to someone they loved. I feel alone.

  The sun is out in force now. Its warmth reached into my bones. How ironic this weather is to me. Hollywood would have you believe it always rains at funerals, a blatant metaphor for tears. My son gets damn picnic weather. I’m burying my son today. Such agonizing pain, how can a man be strong when his son dies for no reason? How can a man be strong when his child has fallen without meaning? How can I be strong? There is no being strong. There is only enduring.

  A young woman approached me from the gravesite. She must be the director. She is about five-foot-seven with blazing red hair cut in long layers. The breeze played with loose strands of her hair and brought them across her face. She is dressed in a black pantsuit with a white dress blouse under her jacket. She had a green scarf around her neck tied in a big knot and tucked into her jacket. If my mood had not been so dourer, I would have given her a second look.

  “Mr. Embers, first let me say, all of us at Alan Brothers Mortuary offer our condolences for your loss. Everything has been prepared per your directions. We can begin whenever you are ready,” she politely waited for me to answer.

  “I’m ready. Let’s begin.” I started walking to the tent they had set up to provide shade for mourners during the services. A lone folding chair is there under the tent. One chair, as I am the only mourner. The only one to mourn a life unlived.

  As we neared the gravesite, the director asked, “Would you like to carry the coffin from the hearse to the gravesite?” I nodded, I was afraid to speak. The fear my voice would crack, and the dam on my emotional control would burst. I slowly walked to the hearse. In the back placed on a fine linen cloth was the tiniest coffin I had ever seen. My son was only a little over three months old in the womb. The casket can sit in the palms of my hands. They had asked if I had wanted a viewing. My heart could not bear to look upon my son’s body. Imagining him as a full-term baby is all I can take.

  My hands and love cradled the casket, as I walked to where he is to be laid to rest. A gravesite worker gently took the casket from me then lowered him into the ground. I walked back to the chair waiting for me under the canopy. There is no member of any clergy to say words over his grave. The words they would say would only be a hollow solace to me. At this moment, my faith in a creator has been rocked to its very foundation. How could any loving God allow this to happen? What justification can there be for this? I know someone of great faith could find some quotes to try and ease my pain. But there is no easing of this pain.

  They started lowering my son to his final resting place. It is the cue for the music to start. I selected three songs to be played the first is “What A Wonderful World” by Louis Armstrong: “I see trees of green, red roses too. I see them bloom, for me and for you…”

  The second song to be played for my son is “Somewhere Over The Rainbow” as sung by Israel Kamakawiwo’ole: “Somewhere over the rainbow. Way up high…”

  The last song is “Tears Of An Angel” by RyanDan. This song is for me. “Cover my eyes. Cover my ears. Tell me these words are a lie…”

  There I sat for a moment after the last song died out. The funeral director walked up to me with a container filled with earth. “Mr. Embers, would you like to throw a little earth into the grave?” I looked up at her. “Some people do. It gives them a sense of closure.” With a small handful of earth, I walked to my son’s open grave. The headstone is already in place. It’s a small marker which said only “Baby Embers, Son.” It looked dark; the hole which is to be my son’s grave. I took a deep breath and tossed the earth into the hole and onto my son’s casket.

  My emotions from the events of these darkest of days have been caged within me so as not to interfere with what needs to be done. Everything I had been holding in check came out. My knees screamed in pain as I fell to them, but the physical pain is an insignificant drop to the ocean of my heartache. I cried. I cried for the son I would never know. Tears fell from my face for the child my wife would never know was growing in her womb. I anguished over the brother Moiraine would never have. Grief filled me that John would not be able to teach his grandson how to work with wood. But more than these sorrows, I cried over the truth I would keep from all of them. The truth he even existed.

  Time does not exist while I am on my knees before my son’s grave. In time a hand touched my shoulder. Turning to look at the hand of the one who interrupted me, I saw it is a slender feminine hand with a French manicure.

  What the …? I know that hand.

  Standing I looked to the owner of the hand. There is no one standing next to me. Slowly I spun around looking in turn to each one of the funeral workers there. The only woman there is the funeral director, but her hands did not have a French manicure. Her nails are painted with an understated red blush. My imagination must be getting the better of me. To the funeral director, I said, “Thank you for all you have done. It was lovely. I think I would like to go back now.”

  “Of course. Again, I would like to extend my condolences. The driver will take you back.” She motioned me towards the limousine.

  The limo is waiting for me. The driver opened the door and tipped his hat again. I said, “Thank you” and entered. He wanted to know if I wanted the scenic route again. My answer was, “It doesn’t matter.” While sitting in the back of the limo, I did not turn to the windows and look outside on the return trip. My vision was focused inward. Flashes of memory came to my consciousness.

  Something was building in me.

  The drive did not register. Over and over my memory showed me not only moments since the night Mark Galos robbed the store, but times from my whole life.

  Something is growing.

  I did not like what I saw in those memories. Time and time again, I had taken an easy path over the one of greater trial.

  It kept growing.

  For all my talk about being a man, I had never stood up and fought for what is right.

  Growing.

  I had run. I had talked my way out. I avoided conflict. Even when my own life was on the line, I backed down. I had been a coward. I am a coward in thought and deed.

  It is burning and still growing.

  Mark Galos had robbed the store. He had threatened Marcy. He had threatened me. He stole my wedding ring. He endangered the children at Greentree. He shot at my daughter. He put my wife in a deathbed. He murdered my son. The son-of-a-bitch is going to pay. The police have been worse than impotent. There is no one I can turn to.

  I am ablaze.

  JUSTICE WILL BE RENDERED ON THAT MONSTER, AND IT WILL BE ME WHO BRINGS IT.

  “Sir, we are here.” The driver had the door open and was leaning into the limo. His words had brought me back to the here and now.

  “Oh, yes, thank you,” I mumbled as I got out of the limousine and shook the driver’s hand. Dazed and a little confused, I wondered, am I going to murder a man? My mind answered the question. Yes, I am. But how?

  “It was a touching service, sir.”

  “Yes, it was. Thank you.” Pulling out my wife’s cell phone as I walked to the car, I called John to check on my wife and Moiraine. I am sure Detective Hawkins is still trying to contact me. John assured me all is well and to take whatever time I needed. “Thanks, John. I owe you one.”

  I had to think this through. At Balboa Park, there is a grassy area near a stand of trees. I like to sit there when I have major thinking t
o do. Finding my spot, I sat and let the wheels spin in my head.

  How am I to kill Mark and get away with the crime? What am I saying? It won’t be a crime; it will be justice. I need to be careful. If he turns up dead, the first person they will look to will be me. The best way would be at a distance. Take him out sniper style. I’ll need a fine rifle. The police are surely watching me. Those poor cops outside my house were executed by the psychopath for no reason other than they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. I don’t understand how I know what I know, but I know it. Say that three times fast. I must shake the police somehow. I can’t risk being caught. Moiraine needs me. It is getting late. I needed to get home.

  A group of joggers are running past me. One stopped in front of me and bent down to tie his shoe. Without looking at me, he said, “Don’t look at me. Detective Hawkins has been trying to talk to you. You need to turn on your cell phone. Wait a few minutes until after I leave before you do it.” He stretched a bit then continued his jog.

  Clever. I hope Mark isn’t as clever or he isn’t watching me twenty-four seven. The last thing I want is another cop to die on my account. Once I was back in my car, I turned on my cell phone. Dozens of texts from my favorite detective and numerous voicemails are waiting for me to reply. I cleared all that crap off my phone. I called Detective Frank.

  “About time you called me back. Don’t turn your phone off again. Two good cops died last night trying to protect you. Do you have any idea where Mark Galos is?”

  “My condolences about the cops. Maybe you guys should give up on protecting me. Let whatever is going to happen happen.”

  “It’s not only about you. Mark Galos threatened all the kids at Greentree. Believe me, if I could cut you loose, I would, but you are the only lead we have. Is there anything you’re not telling us?” He emphasized ‘anything.’ Considerably softer, he said, “You never meant it to go this far. You are in over your head. Come clean with me. I won’t hold it against you. People are dying, good people, you don’t want that on your head.”