Fiction Friday...the saga continues

“Good morning,” spoke the sandy-haired young woman fresh out of high school. “Lovely day outside isn’t it? What can I do for you?”

“Yes it is. I’m wondering if I can use your phone?”

“Of course. But it’ll cost you,” said the young woman with mock seriousness.

Sheepishly, Howard smiled. “Okay.”

“Don’t you want to know what it’s going to cost?

Howard continued to merely smile, not knowing what to say.

“Hey, Margaret,” came another voice from the back, “stop picking on Mr. Moreland and let him use the dang phone.”

“Oh, I was just talking with--”

“--Yeah, yeah, blah, blah. You was just talking.” A short heavyset woman walked out to the front desk carrying a full plastic grocery bag. “Kids these days, huh? They just don’t respect their elders. These are for you, Howard. I’m glad you dropped in.”

Howard reached down, lifted the sack, smiled, and nodded his thanks. The bag held some fresh fruit.
The woman’s name was Joy and for all the years she’d worked at Lester County Library, Howard was her favorite patron. Though he rarely, if in fact ever, to her recollection, borrowed any books, he would usually just come inside to read or to take a break from the extreme weather.

Joy led Howard to the office where a simple rotary phone sat on the edge of a desk. “Just pick it up and dial away, the old-fashioned way. Ha! I’m a poet don’tcha know it!”

Howard dialed.

“Greenwich Realty, Susan speaking.”

“Yes ma’am, I’m inquiring about a property?”

“Okay, what property sir?”

“It’s on Marigold.”

“Uh, lemme see here. Oh yes, 3223 Marigold. Just became available yesterday. Let me get George. He can tell you all about--.”

“--Um, actually. I already know about it. Can you tell me what happened with the owner? I’m aware she had a terminal illness.”

“Well sir,” said Susan slowly, “she did in fact pass away. I’m not sure what this has to do with--”

Howard could not help himself. He blurted out, “There was a child--lived with her. Do you know anything, what happened to him?”

“I’m very sorry. No, that’s not something we would know.”

“You wouldn’t know who would know, I suppose?”

“Umm, the family I’d think?”

“Of course. Thanks.”

Howard peeled a banana as he descended the library steps. He said a silent prayer of gratitude for the food.

Six blocks later Howard walked up the long ramp into the Lester Medical Center. For the first time, Howard laid his eyes on the same hard cracked concrete floor as had Michael. The walls were bare, except for a single cheap bulletin board with announcements and upcoming health events haphazardly pinned to it. A couple of royal-blue worn fabric benches clung to either side of the wall and straight ahead in the center of the floor stood a sign which linked floors and office numbers with names of doctors. It was at this point Howard realized he had no idea what doctor or specialist Michael had been seeing. And as there were some 15 or so medical offices, he would be looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack, assuming Michael’s doctor would even know, much less be willing to impart any information helpful to locating him.

Howard stood before the sign and studied the names of the offices.

A couple minutes passed before a security guard approached.

“Sir, can I help you?”

“No,” Howard mused aloud. “Just looking for my son. He used to come here for some kind of treatment. Don’t even know which doctor he saw.” Howard’s voice was resigned. When he realized he was actually speaking aloud, he looked up at the guard and apologized.

“Now you wouldn’t be talkin’ about a young boy in a wheelchair, Mister, would you be? Came every day about?” came the reply.

“Yes. Light brown hair. Came alone the last few days, but with an old woman before that.”

“Yes, yessir. I know that child. I seen him all the time. But lately sir he don’t come in here. He’s your son?”

“It’s a long story. You say you’ve seen him?”

“Now like I said, lately he don’t come in here no more, but when he did he’d go straight down the hall that way, see.” He leaned toward Howard and pointed his arm to Howard’s right. “Now there’s only two offices down there and one of ‘em’s a ladies' doctor, so he musta been goin’ to the other place. Straight down that hall there. Don’t know if that helps. Mebbe they knows somethin'.”

“Thanks. Thank you very much,” replied Howard, already off the bench and turning down the corridor.

Moments later Howard entered the Blue Ridge Rehabilitation Center and stepped to the front desk.

An attractive young woman with straight long blonde hair and green eyes dressed in a nurse smock met him with a smile and said, “Hi, can I help you?”

“I’m looking for my son. I believe he was a client here recently. He’s a young boy who I think just recently stopped coming. He was in a wheelchair."

The blonde held her eyes with rapt attention. When Howard ceased speaking, she stammered, “Uh, yes, yes. That would’ve been--” cutting herself off, the woman said, “Can you stay right there? Don’t go away. I’ll be right back,” she said.

Not a minute later a young Asian man in dress shirt and tie stepped out into the waiting room and offered his hand to Howard, “Dr. Yamamoto. Pleased to meet you. So you’re the father to this young man--what was his name?”

“Michael.”

“Yes, Michael. We’ve been concerned about Michael. He hasn’t been here all week and his is a treatment that requires strict adherence to his regimen.”

“Have you any ideas where he may be?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Do you--”

“--No no. I heard you. You don’t know where he is?”

“I’ve not seen my son for years and was hoping you might be able to shed some light on where he is.”

“Oh. Oh, I see.” Light seemed to be dawning now and the doctor made a brief glance back toward the office where the blonde was sitting, trying to look busy. “Just a minute,” he said, as he strode back into his office.

After failing to make out the whispers behind the closed door, Howard saw the blonde reappear behind the front desk window and motion to him.

Trying to appear sincere, the woman said, “I hope you’re able to find your son. If you do, please bring him back here so we can continue with his treatment. Okay?”

“Can you tell me what he was being treated for? Perhaps it would somehow help me to locate him.”

“I’m very sorry sir. We really can’t divulge that information.”

“To his father? I’m his father.”

The woman gave a sympathetic look and slowly shook her head. “Sorry.”

Down to his last idea, Howard walked out the door.

Fiction Friday (2 days early)

A FATHER ERASED (PROLOGUE)

The noonday glint of the glass doors across the street caught Howard’s attention for the hundredth time. This time though, he looked up. It was the little boy. And he was alone.

Two blocks later Howard caught up to him, but only after the boy had stopped by the curb. “Hello?” Howard said.

There was no response.

“Hello?” he tried again. The child still did not talk. Howard guessed he was eight. “Are you okay?” If the boy was in any pain, Howard could not tell. It seemed he was in a trance. Then at once he jerked to attention, released the brakes, and rolled on.

This time Howard followed at a distance. Once again, the boy stopped. Howard thought about giving up. But he’d come too far and he felt like he knew the child personally. He had watched him struggle almost daily as the boy entered the medical building. His emotional investment in the child was too great for him to turn back now without understanding his plight. At length his persistence was rewarded as the child wheeled himself into the driveway, then up the slight ramp in through the front door of a small dirty white block house.

Not knowing what he’d say, Howard stepped to the door and knocked.

After another attempt there was a voice. It was a woman’s, perhaps elderly. “Yes?” The door opened to reveal a pleated face, grooves the size of a large map size view of the Rocky Mountains. The woman’s head held a cap, ridiculously pretending to cover her lack of hair. The sight would have been comical if it had not been so pathetic. A threadbare gown barely hid the rest of her wan figure. The woman backed up and turned, leaving the door fully open. “Please come in.”

Howard stepped inside.

“I’m Myra, please sit down.”

That name sounds familiar, Howard thought.

“I knew you would come.”

Howard opened his mouth but made no sound.

The woman had prepared for this moment. “You don’t remember me.” Her tone was unaffected, straightforward. A pause. Myra could see that light was dawning.

Howard dropped his chin and lowered his head. To himself he mouthed, “Myra Stevens.” He did not look up. The implication of the boy’s identity surfaced at once. Myra Stevens was the grandmother of his ex-wife. Myra was his son’s maternal great grandmother. And Michael, his son, was in the next room.

Myra’s voice brought him back. “You can sleep here tonight. There’s much to discuss in the morning. We have little time. Can I get anything for you?"

Howard shook his head, but said, “How did you know I would come?”

“We’ll talk in the morning. Let me show you where you’ll sleep.”

The alarm rang and morning came, but Howard didn’t wake up. He’d never slept. So used to passing each night beneath a starry ceiling, he couldn’t well sleep below a man-made one, much less the same one under which his own son had slept.

“Michael made coffee,” said the old woman from where she lay on the sofa in the living room. She seemed to have not moved an inch from last night.

Howard sat at the far end of the couch.

“Shall we begin?” said Myra. “There’s much to discuss and not much time.”

“What is wrong with Michael?” Howard interjected.

“What will happen to Michael when I’m gone is of far greater concern to me,” Myra said. “I am all he has and when I’m gone he will have only you.”

Howard blinked hard. It was awhile before he could open his eyes. They’d become too sensitive, as if the light in the room was too bright despite the fact that very little sunlight shone through to the living room.

“James Digby, my lawyer, will be coming later so I can sign over the house and other necessaries to you, all of which will be kept in a trust for Michael until he’s of age. As Michael already belongs to you, there’s no problem of custody. His mother is gone, besides. As I said, you are all he has. You’ll also need a job. His social security won’t suffice. Digby can help you there. Michael also knows you’re his father.”

Howard’s face went blank. “What?”

The old woman paused. “I should have known this would be a problem,” she mumbled. To Howard she said, “Alright look, here’s the deal. In a matter of weeks, I will be dead. Cancer, see?” She removed her cap and pointed to her hairless head. “Now my grandson, Michael, he will have no one to care for him. Do you understand?” She spoke even slower than before. “You will have everything you need. I haven’t much to give, but I have enough. It will be yours and Michael’s. Do you know what you're being offered?”

Howard remained seated but said nothing. His eyes glazed over and the room blurred. His mind swam against a current of thoughts. At first he kept pace. But soon after, his mind began to drown in its delirium like water in a whirlpool.

“Howard. Howard?” Myra spoke.

He had waited so long for this day to come. Now, just like that, what he had wanted most in life had just been offered to him.

“Say something.” the sick old woman pleaded.

Silence.

Then Howard stood and walked to the front door. He opened then closed it behind him.


(Any and all comments or criticisms gratefully received and appreciated)

April Showers Bring May Construction...

I've been reading a bit lately about blogs/Twitter, etc, and how to understand where one's market is. As a result, this blog will be undergoing some changes. Up until now I've tried to keep my focus on writing about writing. I've come to realize though that when I get around to publishing my novel I want to already have an audience. And to build the proper audience for the type of fiction I write I need to alter the content of my posts.

This means a couple things: I'm going to be experimenting with the content I write here, changing it around from time to time. I may also ask for input as to what you, as my audience, would like from me.

Here's what I know: my fiction will fall into the contemporary/literary fiction genre. To be a bit more specific, if you like a good human interest tale, this is where I fit in. Maybe Richard Paul Evans with more depth and (hopefully) better prose. More like Frank Conroy or Ernest J. Gaines, I suppose. Run a parental alienation theme through it and you have my first novel, tentatively entitled, A Father Erased.

Anyway, I just wanted to inform you, dear reader, of my aim and intentions with this blog and hope you come along and enjoy the ride. As always, thanks for reading.