“Wasn’t that a nice eulogy?” asked the woman in front of Lucy. To tell the truth, Lucy had no idea what the woman had said. The sound of the twenty-one-gun salute had made her cringe as though the bullets were entering her own body, and then her mind became a whirlwind of thoughts, her ears numb to anything but the voice of her own thoughts. “His words were comforting, although he didn’t pay your father enough tribute. He was a fine man, that Lieutenant Brewer,” the woman continued, patting her on the shoulder before moving along. Lucy stayed rooted to the spot by her father’s grave until the last mourner departed and the gravediggers covered his coffin. No matter how long she stared at the inscription on the tombstone, tears wouldn’t come to her eyes, as if they were frozen in their ducts.
Immobilized, Lucy wondered what she would do now. She had no other family left. Her mother died in a car accident when Lucy was barely a year old. Because her father channeled his bitter anger into becoming the best naval officer he could possibly be, Lucy’s grandparents were left to raise her, and so she grew up beside the sea in Atlantic Beach, North Carolina. Although, because of his dedication, the Navy offered him extended leaves of absence on several occasions, Lieutenant Brewer was always eager to return to sea. For a long time Lucy assumed he didn’t want to see her. She struggled to understand why he so often mailed her birthday presents but seldom showed his own face on such special occasions. As she grew older she realized he simply couldn’t visit her for long without remembering her mother. Escaping to sea became his means of coping with a grief he never fully relinquished. But why can’t he let me grieve with him? Lucy often wondered.
Now, determined to avoid such a life as her father led, at age twenty-two, Lucy Brewer had graduated from the University of North Carolina at Wilmington with a degree in English Education and returned to Atlantic Beach to teach English at East Carteret County High School. As Lucy sucked in a deep breath of crisp October, she realized this ache in her heart probably wasn’t going to go away. She was too much like her father for that. Not only did her sun-bleached blond hair, olive complexion, and intense brown eyes match her father’s, but their nearly identical personalities would undoubtedly drag out her grieving process, preventing her from leaving the seaside to begin a new phase of life. Why couldn’t I have been more like my mother? she thought. Or maybe she was—she’d never know since her father had refused to talk about her and her grandparents were reluctant to divulge what they knew.
Lucy’s insides roiled with a mixture of bitterness and hurt as she contemplated her relationship with her father. Although she knew he was proud of her, Lieutenant Brewer had missed her graduation five months earlier. She’d searched the crowded rows for his familiar face, but it never appeared. Why am I not surprised? She’d asked her self. This is just like him! He’d said his ship would return in time, but of course, it hadn’t. He’d pulled the same no-show stunt at her high school graduation as well. She was the only graduate there with no parents in attendance. He meant well, but the Navy was his first priority—it was his family now.
When Lucy’s grandmother died during her freshman year of college, he’d barely made it ashore in time for the funeral. He’d missed her grandfather’s altogether when he’d suddenly passed six months after his wife— undoubtedly from a broken heart. Lucy still held that against him. Her father was considerate though—she’d give him that. Once her grandparents had passed away, he’d wired her the money he’d saved after his fifth eighteen-month tour at some obscure location at sea, which she’d used to redo the cottage she’d grown up in— the one she now lived in alone.
The day after the funeral life returned to routine. Lucy walked up and down the beach as usual, scanning the horizon for ships and breathing in the salt air. Her golden retriever, Isabel, always followed her faithfully, and chased birds up and down the beach. Yesterday, she’d somehow embedded a large prickly pear in her paw, so today Lucy had left her at the cottage to allow the injury time to heal free from sand. As Lucy raised her hand to shield her eyes from the sun, she drew in a quick breath, mesmerized by the emerald ocean that glinted with a thousand diamonds as the sunlight hit its surface. While she watched, a tiny seagull dove in to the gentle waves and came up with a small fish squirming in its beak. A sand piper ran through the shallows and sinky sand, not five feet from where she stood, poking and jabbing at sand fiddlers that burrowed desperately into the golden sand to escape the ice pick beak.
Not a cloud dotted the deepest blue October sky that faded in color as it blended into the horizon. Just on the edge of the horizon, right where it seemed the sea might fall away over some distant waterfall, lay a large vessel. Lucy strained to see it better. It certainly wasn’t a cruise ship, and it seemed too large to be either one of the shrimp boats or Coast Guard patrol boats that frequented the shoreline of the island. Could it be a cargo freighter, or perhaps a Navy warship like the one aboard which her father had spent the majority of his days?
Something jabbed at the bottom of Lucy’s foot, causing her to shift her weight and move to see what was causing her pain. As she bent down to get a closer look, she lifted a spiraled piece of a conch shell out of the sand. A sad smile played across her lips. Lieutenant Michael Brewer had given Lucy a beautiful, whole pearly-white conk shell laced with rose on the inside when she turned seven years old. “Lucy,” he told her, “I want you to keep this conk shell beside your bed, and every night lift it to your ear before you go to sleep. Then, you will always be able to hear the sound of the ocean wherever you are. Just as I am out at sea, you will feel closer to your Daddy, sweetheart.”
Every night for eighteen months Lucy did just as her daddy asked: she listened to the sounds of the sea in her precious conk shell and whispered a fervent prayer, “Please God, bring my daddy home safe from the ocean. I miss him so much. Please, God.” Finally, Lieutenant Brewer’s ship returned and Lucy was reunited with him.
“Daddy,” Lucy said, tugging on Lieutenant Brewer’s sleeve a few days after he returned to port, “When will you have to leave us again and go back to the ocean?”
“Not for a whole year, sweetheart!” he said, lifting her high above his head, his hands beneath her armpits. “Daddy gets a whole year to spend with just you!”
That was before I grew to resent him, she thought, shivering when a particularly cool finger of autumn breeze wrapped itself around her, and brought her back to reality. Lucy glanced at her watch and realized that if she didn’t hurry, she’d be late for her first class of the day. Taking one last longing glance at the surf, Lucy jogged back to her cottage, promising herself she’d go for a swim later that afternoon. One of the greatest things about the Atlantic Ocean was the way water held its summer heat far into the fall, even after the air had grown cold.
Later, as Lucy dove into the surf and fought the waves until she had swam out past the breakers, she paused to tread water as memories flitted like butterflies through her mind. Every time Lieutenant Brewer was furloughed, he spent as much time as possible with Lucy. Maybe that should have been enough to show her how much he loved her, but she often wished he’d just say the words. She remembered how he’d taught her to swim despite her unearthly fear of the sea.
“The ocean is your friend, Lucy,” he’d said, “and there’s no reason you should be afraid of her; only, you must be careful never to trust her because she may change moods in an instant. Learn to know her moods, and you’ll never see trouble on the sea.”
Walking down the beach, hand-in-hand, he’d shown her how to spot a riptide forming and told her how to escape its pull should she ever be caught in one’s grasp.
One day, he’d taken her hand and asked, “Do you trust me, Lucy?”
“Of course I do, Daddy!” she’d replied.
“Okay. Well, we’re doing to get ourselves caught in the undertow of a rip current so you can experience it and know how to save yourself.”
She’d reluctantly followed him into the surf in the receding current between two sand bars. Soon they were being swept out to sea. For nearly half an hour they’d swam parallel to the beach until Lucy was sure she’d drown from fatigue. Just as she was ready to submit to the ocean’s embrace, she felt the tide release its grasp and relinquish its outward tug on them. Stopping momentarily, Lucy screamed to her father as she tread water, “Daddy, Daddy! We did it! We’re out of the riptide!”
“I know, sweetheart!” he said, hi-fiving her. “I knew we would!” When they’d finally reached the shore and lay panting in the hot sand, it was then Lucy understood the alluring friendship her father shared with his beloved ocean. Later, at times, that understanding made it easier to forgive her father’s lack of verbal approval.
After she finished her swim and returned to her cottage for a hot shower, she walked the three blocks to her father’s favorite diner. Whenever he was home, they ate there at least once a day, and all the waitresses knew their orders before they even sat down—two fried shrimp-burgers; French fries with Ranch to dip them in; Cheerwine to drink; and then banana pudding to top it all off for dessert. Although she carried a stack of her student’s papers to grade, Lucy knew she probably wouldn’t get around to them. She went to the diner to feel closer to her father. As she sat in his favorite booth sipping coffee, a Naval officer came in and looked around the room as if in search of someone. When his eyes landed on her, a faint look of recognition crossed his face, and he moved towards her.
“Miss Brewer?” he asked.
“Yes?” she replied.
“Someone told me I might find you here,” he said with a smile. “Excuse me, I’m Lieutenant-Commander Daniel O’Brien, Lieutenant Brewer’s Commanding Officer. It seems that no one has delivered your father’s personal affects to you.”
“No,” Lucy said, “I haven’t received anything yet.”
“Well, here they are,” O’Brien said, handing her a small camouflaged duffle bag. “Miss Brewer, your father was an honorable man. Truth be told, he probably should’ve been my CO. He loved the sea dearly, and he served his country well.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant-Commander,” Lucy said. “I appreciate your condolences.”
“I’ll leave you alone now Miss Brewer, but I want you to know that your father really loved you. He spoke of you often, and well, he carried a worn picture of you with him at all times that he showed off to all his comrades whether they cared to see it or not. He said you would know the ocean better than he one day,” said O’Brien with a crisp salute, and then he left the diner.
Lucy sat for a moment, letting what had happened soak in, then she flagged down the waitress.
“The usual?” she asked.
“Yes please—the usual.” Lucy said with a smile.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Friday, October 22, 2010
Thoughts about Tozer's "The Pursuit of God"
“The modern scientist has lost God amid the wonders of His world; we Christians are in real danger of losing God amid the wonders of His Word,” states A.W. Tozer in his Pursuit of God. Wow. So profound a statement, and yet so simple and true. This remind me of how the Pharisees knew the legalism of the law so well and yet missed out on knowing who Jesus really is. I pray to know my Bible well, but more importantly to encounter its Author in an amazing love relationship.
Later, Tozer notes that “Everything is made to center upon the initial act of ‘accepting’ Christ (a term, incidentally, which is not found in the Bible) and we are not expected thereafter to crave any further revelation of God to our souls. We have been snared in the coils of a spurious logic which insists that if we have found Him, we need no more seek Him.” I pray that this may never again be truly said of me. Rather, I pray that it be said of me that I have tasted of the Lord and seen that He is good, but one taste is not enough to satisfy me. I want to taste again and again. I want to taste Him in His entirety. I hardly know my God, and I desire to ardently desire to know more of Him.
“If God is present at every point in space, if we cannot go where He is not, cannot even conceive of a place where He is not, why then has not that Presence become the one universally celebrated fact of the world?” questions Tozer. Why does not the whole world understand and respect this fact. Why is so much of the world in such terrible darkness with no light shed on the presence of God all around them? In Genesis 28: 16 Jacob says, “Surely the Lord was in this place; and I knew it not.” God is there whether we entirely realize it or not.
Tozer continues: “Men do not know that God is here. What a difference it would make if they knew. The Presence and the manifestation of the Presence are not the same. There can be one without the other. God is here when we are wholly unaware of His presence. On our part, there must be surrender to the Spirit of God, for His work is to show us the Father and the Son. If we cooperate with Him in loving obedience, God will manifest Himself to us, and that manifestation will be the difference between a nominal Christian life and a life radiant with the light of His face. Always, everywhere God seeks to discover Himself to each one.” I like this notion of God desiring to “discover Himself” to us. Jeremiah 29:13 says, “You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all of your heart.” Matthew 7:7 says, “Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you.” If Tozer’s notion that God desires to “discover Himself” to us is true, then it takes so much pressure off of us and our seeking. We’re sinful human beings whose blundering attempts at seeking after God so often fall incredibly short. What a comfort to know that God is seeking us out as we seek Him out wholeheartedly!
Tozer has some insightful ideas about God speaking, too. “Every one of us,” he says, “has had experience which we have not been able to explain—a sudden sense of loneliness, or a feeling of wonder or awe in the face of universal vastness. Or we have had a fleeting visitation of light like an illumination from some other sun, giving us in a quick flash an assurance that we are from another world, that our origins are divine.” Upon reading that, I was immediately inclined to think of moments such as these that I’ve experienced at Lake Forest Ranch, or at God’s Green Acres (my parents’ farm). Even at school or at home or on the beach I have had such moments. Such moments are incredibly unexplainable, but they are moments when you can’t help but know that God is making His presence known to you in some unspeakable but reassuring way.
Philippians 3:20-21 says, “But our citizenship is in heaven. And we eagerly await a Savior from there, the Lord Jesus Christ, who, by the power that enables him to bring everything under his control, will transform our lowly bodies so that they will be like his glorious body.” I think that when Paul wrote those words, he’d had done of those moments Tozer is talking about, and he knew without a doubt that it was a sure sign that he was not meant for this word.
A contemporary artist, “Between the Trees” has a song entitled “Scarecrow” that I think expresses similar sentiments. The lyrics to the song go as follows: “It ain’t so bad/just try and fit in this hollow mat/’cause you’ve traveled so far from where it all began…./ I think I took the wrong path/and I need to find my way back./ They say you’re never too far/ to start it all again,/ am I too far?” And the chorus: “Maybe I wasn’t made for this world./ All the space in between/ the soul and the seams./ Maybe I wasn’t made for this world.”
Tozer goes on later in his book to talk about the Bible as God’s speaking, living Word. “The Bible,” he says, “will never be a living Book to us until we are convinced that God is articulate in His universe. To jump from a dead, impersonal to a dogmatic Bible is too much for most people. They may admit that they should accept the Bible as the Word of God, and they try to think of it as such, but they find it impossible to believe that the words on the page are actually for them…Now we read the book as the record of what God said when He was for a brief time in a speaking mood…The facts are that God is not silent, never has been silent. It is the nature of God to speak…[the Bible] is not only a book which was once spoken, but a book which is now speaking.” His statement certainly rings true. I so often find myself reading the Bible not as if God is speaking to me as I ready it, but as just another textbook among many others I must read. I feel like He’s silent, but, truly, I just have forgotten how to listen and hear Him speak…or perhaps I never knew how. So many people today pick and choose which parts of the Bible are relevant to them, especially relating to current events and social issues. If it’s convenient, then it’s God’s voice to them. If it’s not, then God spoke it thousand of years ago and it no longer applies to them.
A final Tozer quote that I will include is this word of caution: “Let no one imagine that he will lose anything of human dignity by this voluntary sell-out of his all to his God. He does not by this degrade himself as a man; rather he find his right place of high honor as one made in the image of His Creator. His deep disgrace lay in his moral derangement, his unnatural usurpation of the place of God. His honor will be proved by restoring again that stolen throne. In exalting God over all he fins his own highest honor upheld…The man of God set his heart to exalt God above all; God accepted his intention as fact and acted accordingly. Not perfection, but holy intention made the difference.” This notion that God considers our holy intentions to be fact is quite interesting to me. I’m not sure yet what I think about it. If it’s true that intentions matter most to God, then this notion could upturn and revolutionize my life. It could help me forgive myself and others for past mistakes and injuries. I could move on in a greater sense of new life and peace, further grasping my role as my Father’s treasured possession.
Later, Tozer notes that “Everything is made to center upon the initial act of ‘accepting’ Christ (a term, incidentally, which is not found in the Bible) and we are not expected thereafter to crave any further revelation of God to our souls. We have been snared in the coils of a spurious logic which insists that if we have found Him, we need no more seek Him.” I pray that this may never again be truly said of me. Rather, I pray that it be said of me that I have tasted of the Lord and seen that He is good, but one taste is not enough to satisfy me. I want to taste again and again. I want to taste Him in His entirety. I hardly know my God, and I desire to ardently desire to know more of Him.
“If God is present at every point in space, if we cannot go where He is not, cannot even conceive of a place where He is not, why then has not that Presence become the one universally celebrated fact of the world?” questions Tozer. Why does not the whole world understand and respect this fact. Why is so much of the world in such terrible darkness with no light shed on the presence of God all around them? In Genesis 28: 16 Jacob says, “Surely the Lord was in this place; and I knew it not.” God is there whether we entirely realize it or not.
Tozer continues: “Men do not know that God is here. What a difference it would make if they knew. The Presence and the manifestation of the Presence are not the same. There can be one without the other. God is here when we are wholly unaware of His presence. On our part, there must be surrender to the Spirit of God, for His work is to show us the Father and the Son. If we cooperate with Him in loving obedience, God will manifest Himself to us, and that manifestation will be the difference between a nominal Christian life and a life radiant with the light of His face. Always, everywhere God seeks to discover Himself to each one.” I like this notion of God desiring to “discover Himself” to us. Jeremiah 29:13 says, “You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all of your heart.” Matthew 7:7 says, “Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you.” If Tozer’s notion that God desires to “discover Himself” to us is true, then it takes so much pressure off of us and our seeking. We’re sinful human beings whose blundering attempts at seeking after God so often fall incredibly short. What a comfort to know that God is seeking us out as we seek Him out wholeheartedly!
Tozer has some insightful ideas about God speaking, too. “Every one of us,” he says, “has had experience which we have not been able to explain—a sudden sense of loneliness, or a feeling of wonder or awe in the face of universal vastness. Or we have had a fleeting visitation of light like an illumination from some other sun, giving us in a quick flash an assurance that we are from another world, that our origins are divine.” Upon reading that, I was immediately inclined to think of moments such as these that I’ve experienced at Lake Forest Ranch, or at God’s Green Acres (my parents’ farm). Even at school or at home or on the beach I have had such moments. Such moments are incredibly unexplainable, but they are moments when you can’t help but know that God is making His presence known to you in some unspeakable but reassuring way.
Philippians 3:20-21 says, “But our citizenship is in heaven. And we eagerly await a Savior from there, the Lord Jesus Christ, who, by the power that enables him to bring everything under his control, will transform our lowly bodies so that they will be like his glorious body.” I think that when Paul wrote those words, he’d had done of those moments Tozer is talking about, and he knew without a doubt that it was a sure sign that he was not meant for this word.
A contemporary artist, “Between the Trees” has a song entitled “Scarecrow” that I think expresses similar sentiments. The lyrics to the song go as follows: “It ain’t so bad/just try and fit in this hollow mat/’cause you’ve traveled so far from where it all began…./ I think I took the wrong path/and I need to find my way back./ They say you’re never too far/ to start it all again,/ am I too far?” And the chorus: “Maybe I wasn’t made for this world./ All the space in between/ the soul and the seams./ Maybe I wasn’t made for this world.”
Tozer goes on later in his book to talk about the Bible as God’s speaking, living Word. “The Bible,” he says, “will never be a living Book to us until we are convinced that God is articulate in His universe. To jump from a dead, impersonal to a dogmatic Bible is too much for most people. They may admit that they should accept the Bible as the Word of God, and they try to think of it as such, but they find it impossible to believe that the words on the page are actually for them…Now we read the book as the record of what God said when He was for a brief time in a speaking mood…The facts are that God is not silent, never has been silent. It is the nature of God to speak…[the Bible] is not only a book which was once spoken, but a book which is now speaking.” His statement certainly rings true. I so often find myself reading the Bible not as if God is speaking to me as I ready it, but as just another textbook among many others I must read. I feel like He’s silent, but, truly, I just have forgotten how to listen and hear Him speak…or perhaps I never knew how. So many people today pick and choose which parts of the Bible are relevant to them, especially relating to current events and social issues. If it’s convenient, then it’s God’s voice to them. If it’s not, then God spoke it thousand of years ago and it no longer applies to them.
A final Tozer quote that I will include is this word of caution: “Let no one imagine that he will lose anything of human dignity by this voluntary sell-out of his all to his God. He does not by this degrade himself as a man; rather he find his right place of high honor as one made in the image of His Creator. His deep disgrace lay in his moral derangement, his unnatural usurpation of the place of God. His honor will be proved by restoring again that stolen throne. In exalting God over all he fins his own highest honor upheld…The man of God set his heart to exalt God above all; God accepted his intention as fact and acted accordingly. Not perfection, but holy intention made the difference.” This notion that God considers our holy intentions to be fact is quite interesting to me. I’m not sure yet what I think about it. If it’s true that intentions matter most to God, then this notion could upturn and revolutionize my life. It could help me forgive myself and others for past mistakes and injuries. I could move on in a greater sense of new life and peace, further grasping my role as my Father’s treasured possession.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Seaworthy
“Wasn’t that a nice eulogy?” asked the woman in front of Lucy. To tell the truth, Lucy had no idea what the woman had said. The sound of the twelve-gun salute had made her cringe as though the bullets were entering her own body, and then her mind became a whirlwind of thoughts, her ears numb to anything but the voice of her own thoughts. “His words were comforting, although he didn’t pay your father enough tribute. He was a fine man, that Lieutenant Brewer,” the woman continued, patting her on the shoulder before moving along. Lucy stayed rooted to the spot by her father’s grave until the last mourner departed and the gravediggers had covered his coffin. No matter how long she stared at the inscription on the tombstone, tears wouldn’t come to her eyes, as if they were frozen in their ducts.
Immobilized, Lucy wondered what she would do now. She had no other family left. Her mother died in a car accident when Lucy was barely a year old. Because her father channeled his bitter anger into becoming the best naval officer he could possibly be, Lucy’s grandparents were left to raise her, and so she grew up beside the sea in Atlantic Beach, North Carolina. Although the Navy offered him extended leaves of absence on several occasions because of his dedication, Lieutenant Brewer was always eager to return to sea. For a long time Lucy assumed he didn’t want to see her, but as she grew older she realized he simply couldn’t visit her for long without remembering her mother. Escaping to sea became his means of coping with a grief he never fully relinquished.
Now, at age twenty-two, Lucy Brewer had graduated from the University of North Carolina at Wilmington with a degree in English Education and returned to Atlantic Beach to teach English at East Carteret County High School. As Lucy sucked in a deep breath of crisp October air, she realized this ache in her heart probably wasn’t going to go away. She was too much like her father for that. Not only did her sun-bleached blond hair, olive complexion, and intense brown eyes match her father’s, but their nearly identical personalities would undoubtedly drag out her grieving process, preventing her from leaving the seaside to begin a new phase of life.
Lucy’s insides roiled with a mixture of bitterness and hurt as she contemplated her relationship with her father. Although she knew he was proud of her, Lieutenant Brewer had missed her graduation five months earlier. She’d searched the crowded rows for his familiar face, but it never appeared. He’d said his ship would return in time, but of course, it hadn’t. He’d pulled the same no-show stunt at her high school graduation as well. She was the only graduate there with no parents in attendance. He meant well, but the Navy was his first priority—it was his family now. When Lucy’s grandmother died during her freshman year of college, he’d barely made it ashore in time for the funeral. He’d missed her grandfather’s altogether when he’d suddenly passed six months after his wife— undoubtedly from a broken heart. Her father was considerate though—she’d give him that. Once her grandparents had passed away, with the money he’d saved after his fifth eighteen-month tour at some obscure location at sea, wired her the money she’d used to redo the cottage she’d grown up in— the one she now lived in alone.
The day after the funeral life returned to routine. Every day Lucy walked up and down the beach, scanning the horizon for ships, breathing in the salt air. Her golden retriever, Isabel, always followed her faithfully, and chased birds up and down the beach. Yesterday, she’d somehow embedded a large prickly pear in her paw, so today Lucy had left her at the cottage to allow the injury time to heal free from sand. As Lucy raised her hand to shield her eyes from the sun, she drew in a quick breath, mesmerized by the emerald ocean that glinted with a thousand diamonds as the sunlight hit its surface. While she watched, a tiny seagull dove in to the gentle waves and came up with a small fish squirming in its beak. A sand piper ran through the shallows and sinky sand, not five feet from where she stood, poking and jabbing at sand fiddlers that burrowed desperately into the golden sand to escape the ice pick beak.
Not a cloud dotted the deepest blue October sky that faded in color as it blended into the horizon. Just on the edge of the horizon, right where it seemed the sea might fall away over some distant waterfall, lay a large vessel. Lucy strained to see it better. It certainly wasn’t a cruise ship, and it seemed too large to be either one of the shrimp boats or Coast Guard patrol boats that frequented the shoreline of the island. Could it be a cargo freighter, or perhaps a Navy warship like the one aboard which her father had spent the majority of his days.
Something jabbed at the bottom of Lucy’s foot, causing her to shift her weight and move to see what was causing her pain. As she bent down to get a closer look, she lifted a spiraled piece of a conk shell out of the sand. A sad smile played across her lips. Lieutenant Michael Brewer had given Lucy a beautiful, whole pearly white conk shell laced with rose on the inside when she turned seven years old. “Lucy,” he told her, “I want you to keep this conk shell beside your bed, and every night lift it to your ear before you go to sleep. Then, you will always be able to hear the sound of the ocean wherever you are. Just as I am out at sea, you will feel closer to your Daddy, sweetheart.”
Every night for eighteen months Lucy did just as her daddy asked: she listened to the sounds of the sea in her precious conk shell and whispered a fervent prayer, “Please God, bring my daddy home safe from the ocean. I miss him so much. Please, God.” Finally, Lieutenant Brewer’s ship returned and Lucy and her mother were reunited to him.
“Daddy,” Lucy said, tugging on Lieutenant Brewer’s sleeve a few days after he returned to port, “When will you have to leave us again and go back to the ocean?”
“Not for a whole year, sweetheart!” he said, lifting her high above his head, his hands beneath her armpits. “Daddy gets a whole year to spend with just you!”
Shivering when a particularly cool finger of autumn breeze wrapped itself around her, Lucy glanced at her watch and realized that if she didn’t hurry, she’d be late for her first class of the day. Taking one last longing glance at the surf, Lucy jogged back to her cottage, promising herself she’d go for a swim later that afternoon. One of the greatest things about the Atlantic Ocean was the way water held its summer heat far into the fall, even after the air had grown cold.
Later, as Lucy dove into the surf and fought the waves until she had swam out past the breakers, she paused to tread water as memories flitted like butterflies through her mind. Every time Lieutenant Brewer was furloughed, he spent as much time as possible with Lucy. She remembered how he’d taught her to swim despite her unearthly fear of the sea.
“The ocean is your friend, Lucy,” he’d said, “and there’s no reason you should be afraid of her; only, you must be careful never to trust her because she may change moods in an instant. Learn to know her moods, and you’ll never see trouble on the sea.”
Walking down the beach, hand-in-hand, he’d shown her how to spot a riptide forming and told her how to escape its pull should she ever be caught in one’s grasp.
One day, he’d taken her hand and asked, “Do you trust me, Lucy?”
“Of course I do, Daddy!” she’d replied.
“Okay. Well, we’re doing to get ourselves caught in the undertow of a rip current so you can experience it and know how to save yourself.”
She’d reluctantly followed him into the surf in the receding current between two sand bars. Soon they were being swept out to sea. For nearly half an hour they’d swam parallel to the beach until Lucy was sure she’d drown from fatigue. Just as she was ready to submit to the ocean’s embrace, she felt the tide release its grasp and relinquish its outward tug on them. Stopping momentarily, Lucy screamed to her father as she tread water, “Daddy, Daddy! We did it! We’re out of the riptide!”
“I know, sweetheart!” he said, hi-fiving her. “I knew we would!”
When they’d finally reached the shore and lay panting in the hot sand, it was then Lucy understood the alluring friendship her father shared with his beloved ocean.
After she finished her swim and returned to her cottage for a hot shower, she walked the three blocks to her father’s favorite diner, which he frequented whenever he was home. Although she carried a stack of her student’s papers to grade, she knew she probably wouldn’t get around to them. She went to the diner to feel closer to her father. As she sat in his favorite booth sipping coffee, a Naval officer came in and looked around the room as if in search of someone. When his eyes landed on her, a faint look of recognition crossed his face, and he moved towards her.
“Miss Brewer?” he asked.
“Yes?” she replied.
“Someone told me I might find you here,” he said with a smile. “Excuse me, I’m Lieutenant-Commander Daniel O’Brien, Lieutenant Brewer’s Commanding Officer. It seems that no one has delivered your father’s personal affects to you.”
“No,” Lucy said, “I haven’t received anything yet.”
“Well, here they are,” O’Brien said, handing her a small camouflaged duffel bag. “Miss Brewer, your father was an honorable man. Truth be told, he probably should’ve been my CO. He loved the sea dearly, and he served his country well.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant-Commander,” Lucy said. “I appreciate your condolences.”
“I’ll leave you alone now Miss Brewer, but I want you to know that your father really loved you. He spoke of you often, and well, he carried a worn picture of you with him at all times that he showed off to all his comrades whether they cared to see it or not. He said you would know the ocean better than he one day,” said O’Brien with a crisp salute, and then he left the diner.
Immobilized, Lucy wondered what she would do now. She had no other family left. Her mother died in a car accident when Lucy was barely a year old. Because her father channeled his bitter anger into becoming the best naval officer he could possibly be, Lucy’s grandparents were left to raise her, and so she grew up beside the sea in Atlantic Beach, North Carolina. Although the Navy offered him extended leaves of absence on several occasions because of his dedication, Lieutenant Brewer was always eager to return to sea. For a long time Lucy assumed he didn’t want to see her, but as she grew older she realized he simply couldn’t visit her for long without remembering her mother. Escaping to sea became his means of coping with a grief he never fully relinquished.
Now, at age twenty-two, Lucy Brewer had graduated from the University of North Carolina at Wilmington with a degree in English Education and returned to Atlantic Beach to teach English at East Carteret County High School. As Lucy sucked in a deep breath of crisp October air, she realized this ache in her heart probably wasn’t going to go away. She was too much like her father for that. Not only did her sun-bleached blond hair, olive complexion, and intense brown eyes match her father’s, but their nearly identical personalities would undoubtedly drag out her grieving process, preventing her from leaving the seaside to begin a new phase of life.
Lucy’s insides roiled with a mixture of bitterness and hurt as she contemplated her relationship with her father. Although she knew he was proud of her, Lieutenant Brewer had missed her graduation five months earlier. She’d searched the crowded rows for his familiar face, but it never appeared. He’d said his ship would return in time, but of course, it hadn’t. He’d pulled the same no-show stunt at her high school graduation as well. She was the only graduate there with no parents in attendance. He meant well, but the Navy was his first priority—it was his family now. When Lucy’s grandmother died during her freshman year of college, he’d barely made it ashore in time for the funeral. He’d missed her grandfather’s altogether when he’d suddenly passed six months after his wife— undoubtedly from a broken heart. Her father was considerate though—she’d give him that. Once her grandparents had passed away, with the money he’d saved after his fifth eighteen-month tour at some obscure location at sea, wired her the money she’d used to redo the cottage she’d grown up in— the one she now lived in alone.
The day after the funeral life returned to routine. Every day Lucy walked up and down the beach, scanning the horizon for ships, breathing in the salt air. Her golden retriever, Isabel, always followed her faithfully, and chased birds up and down the beach. Yesterday, she’d somehow embedded a large prickly pear in her paw, so today Lucy had left her at the cottage to allow the injury time to heal free from sand. As Lucy raised her hand to shield her eyes from the sun, she drew in a quick breath, mesmerized by the emerald ocean that glinted with a thousand diamonds as the sunlight hit its surface. While she watched, a tiny seagull dove in to the gentle waves and came up with a small fish squirming in its beak. A sand piper ran through the shallows and sinky sand, not five feet from where she stood, poking and jabbing at sand fiddlers that burrowed desperately into the golden sand to escape the ice pick beak.
Not a cloud dotted the deepest blue October sky that faded in color as it blended into the horizon. Just on the edge of the horizon, right where it seemed the sea might fall away over some distant waterfall, lay a large vessel. Lucy strained to see it better. It certainly wasn’t a cruise ship, and it seemed too large to be either one of the shrimp boats or Coast Guard patrol boats that frequented the shoreline of the island. Could it be a cargo freighter, or perhaps a Navy warship like the one aboard which her father had spent the majority of his days.
Something jabbed at the bottom of Lucy’s foot, causing her to shift her weight and move to see what was causing her pain. As she bent down to get a closer look, she lifted a spiraled piece of a conk shell out of the sand. A sad smile played across her lips. Lieutenant Michael Brewer had given Lucy a beautiful, whole pearly white conk shell laced with rose on the inside when she turned seven years old. “Lucy,” he told her, “I want you to keep this conk shell beside your bed, and every night lift it to your ear before you go to sleep. Then, you will always be able to hear the sound of the ocean wherever you are. Just as I am out at sea, you will feel closer to your Daddy, sweetheart.”
Every night for eighteen months Lucy did just as her daddy asked: she listened to the sounds of the sea in her precious conk shell and whispered a fervent prayer, “Please God, bring my daddy home safe from the ocean. I miss him so much. Please, God.” Finally, Lieutenant Brewer’s ship returned and Lucy and her mother were reunited to him.
“Daddy,” Lucy said, tugging on Lieutenant Brewer’s sleeve a few days after he returned to port, “When will you have to leave us again and go back to the ocean?”
“Not for a whole year, sweetheart!” he said, lifting her high above his head, his hands beneath her armpits. “Daddy gets a whole year to spend with just you!”
Shivering when a particularly cool finger of autumn breeze wrapped itself around her, Lucy glanced at her watch and realized that if she didn’t hurry, she’d be late for her first class of the day. Taking one last longing glance at the surf, Lucy jogged back to her cottage, promising herself she’d go for a swim later that afternoon. One of the greatest things about the Atlantic Ocean was the way water held its summer heat far into the fall, even after the air had grown cold.
Later, as Lucy dove into the surf and fought the waves until she had swam out past the breakers, she paused to tread water as memories flitted like butterflies through her mind. Every time Lieutenant Brewer was furloughed, he spent as much time as possible with Lucy. She remembered how he’d taught her to swim despite her unearthly fear of the sea.
“The ocean is your friend, Lucy,” he’d said, “and there’s no reason you should be afraid of her; only, you must be careful never to trust her because she may change moods in an instant. Learn to know her moods, and you’ll never see trouble on the sea.”
Walking down the beach, hand-in-hand, he’d shown her how to spot a riptide forming and told her how to escape its pull should she ever be caught in one’s grasp.
One day, he’d taken her hand and asked, “Do you trust me, Lucy?”
“Of course I do, Daddy!” she’d replied.
“Okay. Well, we’re doing to get ourselves caught in the undertow of a rip current so you can experience it and know how to save yourself.”
She’d reluctantly followed him into the surf in the receding current between two sand bars. Soon they were being swept out to sea. For nearly half an hour they’d swam parallel to the beach until Lucy was sure she’d drown from fatigue. Just as she was ready to submit to the ocean’s embrace, she felt the tide release its grasp and relinquish its outward tug on them. Stopping momentarily, Lucy screamed to her father as she tread water, “Daddy, Daddy! We did it! We’re out of the riptide!”
“I know, sweetheart!” he said, hi-fiving her. “I knew we would!”
When they’d finally reached the shore and lay panting in the hot sand, it was then Lucy understood the alluring friendship her father shared with his beloved ocean.
After she finished her swim and returned to her cottage for a hot shower, she walked the three blocks to her father’s favorite diner, which he frequented whenever he was home. Although she carried a stack of her student’s papers to grade, she knew she probably wouldn’t get around to them. She went to the diner to feel closer to her father. As she sat in his favorite booth sipping coffee, a Naval officer came in and looked around the room as if in search of someone. When his eyes landed on her, a faint look of recognition crossed his face, and he moved towards her.
“Miss Brewer?” he asked.
“Yes?” she replied.
“Someone told me I might find you here,” he said with a smile. “Excuse me, I’m Lieutenant-Commander Daniel O’Brien, Lieutenant Brewer’s Commanding Officer. It seems that no one has delivered your father’s personal affects to you.”
“No,” Lucy said, “I haven’t received anything yet.”
“Well, here they are,” O’Brien said, handing her a small camouflaged duffel bag. “Miss Brewer, your father was an honorable man. Truth be told, he probably should’ve been my CO. He loved the sea dearly, and he served his country well.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant-Commander,” Lucy said. “I appreciate your condolences.”
“I’ll leave you alone now Miss Brewer, but I want you to know that your father really loved you. He spoke of you often, and well, he carried a worn picture of you with him at all times that he showed off to all his comrades whether they cared to see it or not. He said you would know the ocean better than he one day,” said O’Brien with a crisp salute, and then he left the diner.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Hate: The Queen of Poisons (A Short Story)
“Estimated time of death?”
“Between six and seven hours ago.”
“So that puts us at what? Midnight? One o’clock in the morning?”
“Yea. That’s about right. I can let you know more after I get him back to the lab and perform the autopsy.”
“Okay great. Let me know as soon as you find out anything. Something about this seems odd to me.”
Sergeant Cinthia Williams of the Albuquerque Police Department glanced at her watch as she spoke with Dr. Marcia McKalister, APD’s medical examiner and pathologist. At 7AM on that crisp January Tuesday morning Williams already had several ongoing investigations awaiting her at the department, and no amount of mystery surrounding the death of Kirk Manfrey would materialize the case into a criminal investigation until the autopsy reports returned. Shaking her head to clear the cobwebs and regain her focus, Williams left the Manfrey home and drove to the APD headquarters in downtown Albuquerque.
While she drove, memories of Kirk Manfrey flitted in and out of her mind like birds in the early morning light. Cinthia and Kirk attended high school together and, although they graduated in the same class, moved in very different circles. Kirk was a jock, a football player, but he went against the stereotype by excelling academically. In fact, he received a full ride to Vanderbilt University—half of which was to play football, and the other half because of his high ACT scores and high school 3.9 GPA. While Kirk Manfrey stood out on paper, his personal integrity fell far below the mark as he bullied both his friends and foes, and earned a scarlet A for his animal-wild party habits. Cinthia, on the other hand, while also excelling in school was involved in less than popular and “cool” extracurricular activities such as the high school newspaper, ROTC, and the young law enforcers club. She also worked part time at the local library. She had attended the police academy in New Mexico rather than attending a four-year college, although she had been offered a significant scholarship to the University of New Mexico. Kirk’s type made fun of Cinthia’s type, while hers avoided his like the plague. Until this morning, Cinthia had made no contact with Kirk nor had she heard any news about his accomplishments, or perhaps lack thereof, since high school graduation. There had, as yet, been no reunions, although they were due for their ten-year reunion in the spring. What had happened to him in the last nine and a half years? What sort of person was he now? Why had he died so suddenly at barely twenty-eight years of age?
As thoughts and questions filled her head, Cinthia decided to make a pit stop to grab some coffee to help her focus before she began her work.
By noon, Cinthia had made little headway on the files of cases stacked on her desk. She was preoccupied, curious. Even her partner noticed, though he refrained from commenting. Something was up, but Ben Michelson knew that Cinthia would talk only when and if she wanted to share her thoughts. At three o’clock she let him in on her private musings.
“It’s so weird that Kirk Manfrey just up and died out of the blue. It doesn’t make sense. Something doesn’t add up,” Cinthia blurted without introduction.
“Yea?” Ben coaxed. “Did the autopsy reports come back already?”
“No, not yet…but still…there’s something rotten in Denmark…”
“Well there’s nothing we can do about it till the official report comes back and confirms that something is awry,” he laughed. She frowned back. “Say, didn’t you graduate from high school with that guy?”
“Yea, in 2000.”
“Were you guys friends?”
“Not exactly…”
“Lovers? Now, don’t tell me you lost your virginity to this guy in the backseat of his mom’s minivan after your senior prom!” Ben joked. Cinthia punched him in the arm as he ducked and tried to block the blow.
“What is wrong with you? No! Of course, not! You’re crazy!” she defended herself.
“But no, seriously, we moved in very different circles. I don’t have very good memories of this guy.”
“Care to share?”
“Not really. But I will anyway. See, in middle school I had a lot of acne. You know, angry red bumps like fire-ant bites all over my face?”
“You? No way! You’ve got to be kidding me! A beauty like you with acne?” Ben teased.
“Would you be serious for once? I really did have terrible acne then. I was super self-conscious about it, and some days I’d try to find ways to stay home from school rather than allow the light of day to shine on my pimply face. Anyway, one day in seventh grade Kirk Manfrey told me that my face had so many zits on it I looked like I had a thousand Mount Vesuvius’ erupting on my face. You may think it’s funny now, but I never forgot it. Now, keep in mind though, that this guy wasn’t some ugly turd with nothing better to do. He was the athletic stud of our school from elementary school on up. “
“Gee. I didn’t think you cared so much about what other people think.”
“I don’t now. I did then. Jerks like Kirk Manfrey have taught me not to care about what others think, only to care about the opinions of those who truly love you.”
“Well it’s nice to know that something nice came out of his bullying.”
“Yea, really. I’m not plotting his murder to get revenge for things said or done to me fifteen years ago. I could’ve become a mass murderer you know. Brought a gun to school and shot all those jerks like Kirk,” Cinthia somberly joked.
“Yea, you’ve got a point there. Now you’re trying to solve a mystery behind his death that’s not even really there yet. Kind of ironic, huh? Say, you’re not trying to confess something to me here are you?”
“Huh? What are you talking about Michelson?”
“You didn’t do it, did you? If you confess now I can try to work out a deal for you.
Maybe you can plead insanity brought on by childhood abuse.”
“Knock it off will you Ben? You’re crazy! You know I didn’t do it. I’m a trained police officer and detective, and when I smell a skunk, it’s my job to tree him.”
“I know, Cinthia, I know. I’m just giving you a hard time. It’s funny when you get so riled up at my attempts at humor.”
“Yea, you can say attempts again, but this time add the word lame in front of it.”
“Easy there killer! But seriously, don’t you think you’re barking up a tree that hasn’t even been planted at a skunk that’s really just a cute, harmless kitten?”
“Who said kittens were harmless?”
“Okay, okay. I’m just saying…”
“Well, let me bark, okay?”
“Okay, fine. I’ll leave you alone. Just don’t pull out your rifle to shoot the skunk until you get back an autopsy report that reveals foul play.”
“Okay. It’s a deal.”
As Cinthia prepared to leave her office that evening around 5:30, the phone rang.
Although she debated ignoring the call, she decided to answer under the slim chance that maybe it would be Marcia calling with the autopsy report.
“Hello? This is Sgt. Cinthia Williams speaking. How may I serve you?”
“Cinthia! I’m glad you answered. I was afraid I’d missed you and you had already left for home,” Dr. Marcia McKalister said excitedly into the phone.
“Nope. I’m still here, unfortunately. It’s been a long day. I was just heading out the door.”
“Oh, I’m sorry dear. I apologize for bothering you, but is there any way you can drop by my lab on your way home? I’ve got something I think you ought to see.”
“What is it Marcia? Does this have to do with Kirk Manfrey?”
“I can’t talk about this over the phone, dear. You just need to come down here and see for yourself. But to answer your second question: yes, it does relate to Kirk Manfrey.”
“Ok. Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes tops.”
“I’m not going anywhere, so do me a favor and don’t wreck on your way over here. I’ve done enough autopsies for the day.”
“Yea, yea. I’ll be careful. See you in a few.”
As Cinthia parked her car in the parking lot and raced towards the double automatic doors of the building beside the hospital in downtown Albuquerque that housed Dr. Marcia McKalister’s pathology lab, her heart beat wildly as she wondered what on earth was so important that she needed to present herself in person. Marcia hardly ever called her down to the lab. It was sacred territory to the pathologist. She didn’t want just anyone gaping and gagging at the dead bodies and human remains that she tested and searched, trying to reveal the secrets their breathless bodies could no longer tell. Something was definitely out of the ordinary. Ben must certainly have been mistaken that she was barking up an invisible tree at an imaginary skunk.
Marcia greeted her as she stepped off the elevator and onto the second floor. Cinthia followed her down the hallway to the door of the lab and, as she swiped her keycard through the sensor by the door, Marcia exclaimed, “You’re not going to believe this Cindi.”
“What? What did you find? Was I right about Kirk’s death being no accident?”
“Well, actually, I found nothing wrong, nothing out of the ordinary, which is what gave me a red flag that something was amiss. I obtained access to Manfrey’s health records—he had an annual physical just two weeks ago, and he was perfectly healthy. No high cholesterol, no heart problems or high blood pressure. Nothing that could’ve, or perhaps should’ve, caused death at such a young age. He was only barely twenty-eight, you know?”
“Yes, I know. I went to high school with him, remember?”
“Oh, yes. Now I do remember you mentioning that this morning.”
“Well? So what did you do? Is that all?”
“I’m getting there, dear. Just give me a moment.”
“I’m sorry, Marcia. I’m just eager to know what truly happened to Kirk.”
“It’s okay. Anyway, nothing showed in the preliminary tox screening I sent out, so I ordered a secondary panel that is, um, how should I say it? More extensive? It screens for more than the usual sorts of toxins we see everyday in Albuquerque.”
“I see. Have you gotten that back yet?”
“Yes. It came just half an hour ago, which is why I called you.”
“Well?”
“The results showed trace amounts of aconite, an herb that is very rarely seen in the US, but is one of the most formidable natural poisons that can be found in the world today. It’s also known as ‘Monk’s Hood’ or ‘Wolfs bane.’ ”
“You mean like Wolfs bane from Harry Potter?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“But I thought that was imaginary, made up.”
“Well, J.K. Rowling’s books are fiction, my dear, but certain aspects are not purely fictional. Wolfs bane is real and, unfortunately, usually fatal.”
“You’re funny Marcia. But really, how did it kill Manfrey?”
“That part I’m not sure about. See, aconite is a plant, a flower really. It is native to England, but also can be found in South Wales and other surrounding areas, but not the US. I’m not sure how he came into contact with it. That’s what you have to find out. However, I am sending the contents of his stomach and intestines to be tested. Certain foods, such as curry, disguise the flavor of the aconite herb, so if we can find out what he ate and who served it to him, you might have a lead.”
“Excellent. Marcia, you’re great.”
“Yea, yea. Great…and underappreciated and overworked.”
“Now, that’s not entirely true. What would we do without you?”
“You’d get nowhere fast, that’s for sure. Now wait a minute, don’t go running out that door. There’s more you should know.”
“Yea?”
“If you’re going to start asking questions, you should know some of the symptoms of aconite poisoning. It might help you get somewhere; get a better idea of when exactly Kirk was poisoned. After all, it can take several days or just a few hours for the herb to be fatal after ingestion if left untreated.”
“Right. So what should I know?”
“Symptoms include numbness and tingling in the mouth, cold, pale, and clammy skin, irregular pulse, weakness, nausea and vomiting, as well as difficulty breathing. Victim may feel like ants are crawling all over his body. Often, victim will act giddy while at the same time staggering about; however, the mind remains clear till nearly the end.”
“Wow, that sounds like fun. Seems like he would’ve complained to someone about those symptoms at some point.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“Thanks Marcia. I owe you.”
“Don’t mention it. Now get out of here and solve this mystery. I’ll let you know when I hear anything more.”
Before she even reached the elevator, Cinthia had her phone in her hand and was dialing her partner’s number. He picked up on the first ring.
“Found your skunk?” Ben Michelson asked sarcastically.
“Yea, actually. I did. Can you meet me back at the office for a quick briefing? We may have a long night ahead of us.”
“Yea, I’ll be there in fifteen. And you can leave off the ‘I told you so.’”
“I never even thought about it. See you in a few.” As she hung up the phone and climbed in her car, Cinthia mentally made a list of all the people they should interview before calling her boss to let him in on the situation. An hour later Cinthia and Ben left the office to return to Kirk Manfrey’s home.
The Manfrey home was an impressive mansion in a nice, safe neighborhood. But was any neighborhood really safe these days? Cinthia noted the elaborate landscaping around the house and sophisticated decorations inside that she had ignored during her visit that morning. Now every little detail might hold important evidence. Mrs. Angela Manfrey answered the door with a surprised look on her face.
“Why, hello, I didn’t expect to see the police back so soon. What can I do for you?” she asked politely.
“Mrs. Manfrey, I was here this morning, but I am Sgt. Cinthia Williams and this is my partner Ben Michelson.”
“It’s nice to meet you. Please, call me Angela. Won’t you come in and sit down.” Did she really just bat her eyelashes at Ben? Her husband had only died just this morning!
“As a matter of fact, that would excellent. We need to ask you a few questions, Angela,” Ben said.
“Can I get you a cup of chai tea?” Angela asked without taking her eyes off Ben as they sat on a plush couch in a fancy parlor directly to the right of the front door.
“No thank you,” Ben said quickly. “Angela, when was the last time your saw your husband alive?”
“Well, he didn’t come home until close to ten o’clock on Monday night, and I was already in bed. I heard him come in, but then I was fast asleep.”
“Did your husband wake you up during the night?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, he did. He was tossing and turning non-stop. It was irritating. He said something to me at one point about feeling nauseous, but I figured he was a big boy and could take care of himself.”
“Did he actually vomit? Or did he tell you about feeling oddly in any other way?”
“Like I said, my husband was a big boy. I don’t know if he vomited or not. I wasn’t going to lose a night’s sleep over it. If he needed me, he would’ve gotten me up to help him. I slept, thought not well, till I early Tuesday morning, when I found Kirk dead. Why are you asking all these questions, anyway?”
“I’m afraid we have some bad news,” Ben said, nodding for Cinthia to take over.
“How bad could it be? My husband is dead. It can’t get much worse than that.”
“Mrs. Manfrey,” Cinthia replied, “Your husband’s autopsy report revealed that his death was no accident. He was poisoned.”
“Oh dear me, no! You don’t think I did it, do you?”
“We don’t know who did it. Maybe it was you, you’re certainly a prime suspect; but then again, maybe not. We’d like to ask you some more questions.”
“I can assure you, I did not kill my husband. I would be more than happy to help you in your investigation in any way possible. What would you like to know?”
“Well, for starters, how was your marriage with your husband?”
“You know, it had its ups and downs, but we pull through the downs. My husband liked to look around at other women a lot, so we had a bit of a rocky spell for a while. Nothing that love and devotion to keeping a family together couldn’t fix.” As she spoke she seemed to look at Ben for a reaction.
“I’m glad to hear you’re dedicated to preserving family, Mrs. Manfrey. I understand that you and your husband have a daughter?”
“Yes, Lydia. My pride and joy. She’s upstairs if you’d like to meet her.”
“In a few minutes that would be nice, but we have a few more questions for you first. What was your husband’s job like? Did he work long hours?”
“Kirk worked as an associate in a law firm. He’d been there for three years and was hoping to make partner before too long. He graduated from Vanderbilt University undergraduate and law school, you know. And yes, he worked long hours quite frequently. Most Saturdays he spent in the office, and many nights he didn’t get home till well after dinner—say, 8 or 9 o’clock.”
“Do you have any reason to believe that your husband went anywhere besides the law office when he worked late?”
“No, not really. He was dedicated to his job. I think he went out to eat a lot, but mostly with clients.”
“Did he have any enemies? Anyone who would want him dead?”
“Not that I’m aware of. Perhaps you should talk to the law firm about that. I know that he worked some criminal cases last year.”
“Alright, thank you, Mrs. Manfrey.” After interviewing Lydia Manfrey, who was only seven years old, and gleaning very little helpful information, Cinthia and her partner left the Manfrey mansion without much to go on.
The next morning Cinthia and Ben were at the door of the law firm before opening. Stenciled into the glass door panels in black and gold lettering Cinthia read Schwinn & Jacobs, Partners at Law. She vaguely remembered seeing an ad on television advertising that these brilliant lawyers were the ones for you. Not anymore for one of your associates, she thought. After waiting an interminably long time in the reception area till the lawyers got there, Cinthia and Ben were impatient and frustrated by the time they were ushered into an opulent conference room where head partners Joseph Schwinn and Eleazar Jacobs awaited them. Once they went through formal introductions and explained Kirk Manfrey’s death to his bosses, Cinthia cut right to the chase.
“Did Mr. Manfrey have any enemies in your firm?”
“None that would kill him,” Schwinn took the lead, “ I can assure you of that. There are other associates that are, or should I say were, competing with him for a spot as partner, but all hostilities between the competitors were quite civil, really.”
“Don’t you think that’s a bit contradictory, Mr. Schwinn?”
“Miss, uh, what did you say your name was?”
“Sgt. Williams.”
“Sgt Williams, the legal world is extremely competitive. Whoever doesn’t make partner will be forced back out into the job market and, quite frankly, there are very few prospects these days. Each man must do what he must to be the best. Nothing violent, just hard work, you see.”
“I understand. All the same, we will need to interview Mr. Manfrey’s ‘competitors.’”
“Alright. That can be arranged. Is there anything else you would like to know, or may we return to our busy schedules?”
“Did Mr. Manfrey have an clients who might be upset with him? Or what about the opposing side in one of his cases?”
“Mr. Manfrey has not been assigned to any big-time criminal cases. Those are saved for partners. Perhaps he made someone mad, but I doubt that any of his clients or opponents would be so angered as to murder him. His specialty was civil cases; property disputes, estate folds, etc. Nothing to kill someone over, really.”
“Thank you. That’s all for now, but we may be back for more.”
Cinthia and Ben spent the entire morning and the larger part of the afternoon interviewing lower-ranked partners, associates, secretaries, errand boys, anyone at the firm who might know anything valuable at all. Finally, they met someone who knew something that might prove to be a lead—Kirk Manfrey’s co-associate Fred Snyder, who shared a small office space with him.
“How would your describe your relationship to Kirk Manfrey?” Ben asked Snyder methodically.
“Well, we shared this office space, so we saw a lot of each other. We both, of course, aspired to becoming partners, but we really didn’t consider one another competitors. We were best friends. We roomed together in law school at Vanderbilt and than somehow both landed jobs at this firm right after graduation.”
“Did anyone else from you class at Vanderbilt work here?”
“No, and I don’t think that anyone else applied to be honest. I mean, who wants to practice law in New Mexico after getting a degree in Tennessee? We weren’t exactly the top of our class, you see.”
“Okay. Did anything unusual happen in the last several days? Like did Manfrey act strangely or receive a threat or anything?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, he received an unusual phone call on Monday morning. He told me about it over lunch. A guy that graduated from high school with him called him up, said he’d moved to the area and seen his name in some Schwinn & Jacobs ad, and wanted to reconnect. Kirk said he couldn’t quite put a face with the guy, but he remembered the name in connection to high school, so he agreed to meet the guy for dinner. He thought he was one of his former football buddies or something.”
“What was the guy’s name? Do you remember? Did he tell you?”
“Let’s see, he did. Something Vaughn… started with an ‘r’…Russell I think? Yeah, that’s right. Russell Vaughan.”
“Great. You’re doing just fine Mr. Snyder, just a few more questions and we’ll be through. Did he say when and where he agreed to meet Russell Vaughan?”
“Monday night. He finished up his work early that night, well, at least, early for him. Usually he leaves for home around 8 o’clock, but he was out of here by 6:15 PM Monday night. He said he was going to some Indian restaurant. I can’t remember the name of it. I’m not a big fan of Indian cuisine myself.”
“Alright. Thank you Mr. Snyder, you’ve given us something to go on.”
Back at the Albuquerque police department Cinthia ran Russell Vaughan’s name through the system while Ben searched for Indian restaurants in Albuquerque. Nothing much turned up on Vaughan. He had been charged with a minor in possession of alcohol at age sixteen, but his record had later been expunged. Other than that he had a few speeding tickets, but no criminal activity. Even after seeing his photograph in the system, Cinthia only vaguely remembered seeing the guy in the hallway a few times at their high school. Maybe they’d had a few classes together, but she couldn’t be sure. Ben discovered two Indian restaurants on opposite sides of town. Two wasn’t so bad; they’d expected to find at least ten.
At the first restaurant, Taj Mahal Indian Cuisine, Cinthia and Ben flashed around photos of both Manfrey and Vaughan, but none of the wait staff had seen either of them. No one had any useful information, so they drove across town to the only other avenue left in this lead. As they entered Royal India Cuisine, they began the same procedure they had implemented in the other restaurant of flashing the photos and questioning the wait staff. This time, they got a response on the first try.
“This man is my boss, the owner of Royal India Cuisine,” said the maitre’ d, tapping a long, painted-red fingernail on the photo of Russell Vaughan. “Is he in some kind of trouble?”
“We just need to ask him a few questions,” Cinthia reassured the girl. “Where might we find him?”
“Well, you actually came at a good time because he’s in his office still. It’s right around the corner there,” she said pointing down a hallway in that back that led to the kitchen and bathrooms. “Come on, I’ll take you to him.”
“Mr. Vaughan, there’s some police officers here to see you,” the girl said as she ushered them into his small managerial office and then quickly headed back to her station by the front door. As they entered, Cinthia saw a startled look on Vaughan’s face that he quickly smoothed into a smile. After introducing themselves, they began questioning him.
“Did you have dinner with this man, Kirk Manfrey, on Monday night?” Cinthia asked, showing Vaughan the photo.
“Yes, I did. Is that a problem?”
“Well, it all depends. Could be. How did you know Manfrey?”
“From high school. I moved to the area a few months ago and I found out that he lives here as well, so I contacted him. You know, new place, new faces; it’s nice to have a face that you recognize.”
“Were you and Manfrey close friends in high school?”
“No, not really.”
“Are you aware that Kirk Manfrey was found dead on Tuesday morning in his home?”
“No, I was not. How awful! What happened?”
“We thought you might know something about that, Mr. Vaughan.”
“You don’t think I killed him do you? He left here around 8:45 PM on Monday night after we ate dinner and he seemed quite alright then.”
“What did Manfrey have to eat for dinner?”
“Let me see, I’m not sure if I can remember.”
“It was only a day ago, Mr. Vaughan. I’m sure you can remember. You work in the food business; food is your livelihood. I’m sure you remember what he ate. I remember what I ate Monday night—a grilled cheese sandwich, a can of Campbell’s tomato soup, a glass of ice water…”
“Alright, alright. I get your point. I believe he had two of our house specialties—Spinach Curry and Lamb Bhuna. They are quite delicious, a real taste of India.”
“Did you, Mr. Vaughan, poison Mr. Manfrey?”
“What? Are you serious? That’s preposterous! Why would I do a thing like that?”
“That’s what we’d like to know, Mr. Vaughan. May we search the premises?”
“Can I see a search warrant, please?”
“We don’t have one, but don’t worry, we’ll get one.”
As Cinthia and Ben stepped outside the restaurant at the demand of the angry proprietor, they discussed the case.
“I think he did it, or at least knows something about it,” Cinthia said. “Did you see how defensive he got?”
“Yea, I do too. Let’s get that search warrant.”
Within an hour they miraculously had the warrant in their hands, and forensics was combing the place. Vaughan sat on a barstool, visibly nervous and angry while they searched his office. In a discreet corner of the pantry in the kitchen Ben found an unfamiliar purplish flower. As he brought it out to ask Cinthia about it, Vaughan’s eyes grew wide and he bolted for the door. He didn’t get far because Cinthia side tackled him, pinning him to the floor and cuffing him quickly before he could get away. With her knee on Vaughan’s back riveting him firmly to the ground, Cinthia looked up at her partner breathlessly and said, “Ben, that’s it! That’s aconite! It looks just like the pictures Marcia showed me at the lab. I think we’ve got our killer!”
Ben smiled and stepped forward to help Cinthia up and read Russell Vaughan his Miranda rights. “You are under arrest for the murder of Kirk Manfrey. You have the right to remain silent. Everything you say can and will be used against you…” When he finished, Vaughan was laughing.
“I’m surprised your stupid police department even figured out that Manfrey was murdered, but you know what, I don’t care. You’re right, I did it! I killed the bastard. It was all too easy, but I got justice. I got revenge.”
“Why did you do it?” Cinthia asked.
“You don’t know? I’m surprised you didn’t do it before me. Do you not remember that son of a bitch from high school? He beat me up in the locker room more than once. When they said I got a broken nose in practice and couldn’t play any more football my senior year, it ruined my chances of going to college. But I didn’t break it in practice—Manfrey did it to me in the locker room.”
“Why didn’t you just turn him in?”
“I couldn’t. He blackmailed me! Said if I ever told on him marijuana would mysteriously appear in my belongings and an anonymous tip would set the school officials on me immediately. I didn’t have a chance. No one would’ve believed me, a third string running back, over the star football player, especially after I’d already been arrested for a minor in possession of alcohol, which was also his doing, mind you. But that’s not all, oh no, not at all. He cheated off me on every test, from sixth till twelfth grade. He stole my lunch money. Knocked up my girlfriend. Worst of all he had his dad fire my mom from her job. We were dirt poor trying to live off her measly secretarial wages as it was, but that just completely ruined us. That bully, he not only manhandled me during school but he immobilized me so that when my mom developed cancer, we had no way to pay for treatment. She died within three months. It was all that bastard’s fault. He got what he deserved.”
Later, when Russell Vaughan was behind bars and Cinthia and Ben were back in their office finishing up paperwork before calling it a night, Ben said, “You know, our conversation yesterday sure is ironic. You really could’ve been the killer, Mt. Vesuvius.”
Half-heartedly throwing a punch his way, Cinthia replied, “I know. I was thinking about that too. I guess hate, not just aconite, is the queen of all poisons.”
“Between six and seven hours ago.”
“So that puts us at what? Midnight? One o’clock in the morning?”
“Yea. That’s about right. I can let you know more after I get him back to the lab and perform the autopsy.”
“Okay great. Let me know as soon as you find out anything. Something about this seems odd to me.”
Sergeant Cinthia Williams of the Albuquerque Police Department glanced at her watch as she spoke with Dr. Marcia McKalister, APD’s medical examiner and pathologist. At 7AM on that crisp January Tuesday morning Williams already had several ongoing investigations awaiting her at the department, and no amount of mystery surrounding the death of Kirk Manfrey would materialize the case into a criminal investigation until the autopsy reports returned. Shaking her head to clear the cobwebs and regain her focus, Williams left the Manfrey home and drove to the APD headquarters in downtown Albuquerque.
While she drove, memories of Kirk Manfrey flitted in and out of her mind like birds in the early morning light. Cinthia and Kirk attended high school together and, although they graduated in the same class, moved in very different circles. Kirk was a jock, a football player, but he went against the stereotype by excelling academically. In fact, he received a full ride to Vanderbilt University—half of which was to play football, and the other half because of his high ACT scores and high school 3.9 GPA. While Kirk Manfrey stood out on paper, his personal integrity fell far below the mark as he bullied both his friends and foes, and earned a scarlet A for his animal-wild party habits. Cinthia, on the other hand, while also excelling in school was involved in less than popular and “cool” extracurricular activities such as the high school newspaper, ROTC, and the young law enforcers club. She also worked part time at the local library. She had attended the police academy in New Mexico rather than attending a four-year college, although she had been offered a significant scholarship to the University of New Mexico. Kirk’s type made fun of Cinthia’s type, while hers avoided his like the plague. Until this morning, Cinthia had made no contact with Kirk nor had she heard any news about his accomplishments, or perhaps lack thereof, since high school graduation. There had, as yet, been no reunions, although they were due for their ten-year reunion in the spring. What had happened to him in the last nine and a half years? What sort of person was he now? Why had he died so suddenly at barely twenty-eight years of age?
As thoughts and questions filled her head, Cinthia decided to make a pit stop to grab some coffee to help her focus before she began her work.
By noon, Cinthia had made little headway on the files of cases stacked on her desk. She was preoccupied, curious. Even her partner noticed, though he refrained from commenting. Something was up, but Ben Michelson knew that Cinthia would talk only when and if she wanted to share her thoughts. At three o’clock she let him in on her private musings.
“It’s so weird that Kirk Manfrey just up and died out of the blue. It doesn’t make sense. Something doesn’t add up,” Cinthia blurted without introduction.
“Yea?” Ben coaxed. “Did the autopsy reports come back already?”
“No, not yet…but still…there’s something rotten in Denmark…”
“Well there’s nothing we can do about it till the official report comes back and confirms that something is awry,” he laughed. She frowned back. “Say, didn’t you graduate from high school with that guy?”
“Yea, in 2000.”
“Were you guys friends?”
“Not exactly…”
“Lovers? Now, don’t tell me you lost your virginity to this guy in the backseat of his mom’s minivan after your senior prom!” Ben joked. Cinthia punched him in the arm as he ducked and tried to block the blow.
“What is wrong with you? No! Of course, not! You’re crazy!” she defended herself.
“But no, seriously, we moved in very different circles. I don’t have very good memories of this guy.”
“Care to share?”
“Not really. But I will anyway. See, in middle school I had a lot of acne. You know, angry red bumps like fire-ant bites all over my face?”
“You? No way! You’ve got to be kidding me! A beauty like you with acne?” Ben teased.
“Would you be serious for once? I really did have terrible acne then. I was super self-conscious about it, and some days I’d try to find ways to stay home from school rather than allow the light of day to shine on my pimply face. Anyway, one day in seventh grade Kirk Manfrey told me that my face had so many zits on it I looked like I had a thousand Mount Vesuvius’ erupting on my face. You may think it’s funny now, but I never forgot it. Now, keep in mind though, that this guy wasn’t some ugly turd with nothing better to do. He was the athletic stud of our school from elementary school on up. “
“Gee. I didn’t think you cared so much about what other people think.”
“I don’t now. I did then. Jerks like Kirk Manfrey have taught me not to care about what others think, only to care about the opinions of those who truly love you.”
“Well it’s nice to know that something nice came out of his bullying.”
“Yea, really. I’m not plotting his murder to get revenge for things said or done to me fifteen years ago. I could’ve become a mass murderer you know. Brought a gun to school and shot all those jerks like Kirk,” Cinthia somberly joked.
“Yea, you’ve got a point there. Now you’re trying to solve a mystery behind his death that’s not even really there yet. Kind of ironic, huh? Say, you’re not trying to confess something to me here are you?”
“Huh? What are you talking about Michelson?”
“You didn’t do it, did you? If you confess now I can try to work out a deal for you.
Maybe you can plead insanity brought on by childhood abuse.”
“Knock it off will you Ben? You’re crazy! You know I didn’t do it. I’m a trained police officer and detective, and when I smell a skunk, it’s my job to tree him.”
“I know, Cinthia, I know. I’m just giving you a hard time. It’s funny when you get so riled up at my attempts at humor.”
“Yea, you can say attempts again, but this time add the word lame in front of it.”
“Easy there killer! But seriously, don’t you think you’re barking up a tree that hasn’t even been planted at a skunk that’s really just a cute, harmless kitten?”
“Who said kittens were harmless?”
“Okay, okay. I’m just saying…”
“Well, let me bark, okay?”
“Okay, fine. I’ll leave you alone. Just don’t pull out your rifle to shoot the skunk until you get back an autopsy report that reveals foul play.”
“Okay. It’s a deal.”
As Cinthia prepared to leave her office that evening around 5:30, the phone rang.
Although she debated ignoring the call, she decided to answer under the slim chance that maybe it would be Marcia calling with the autopsy report.
“Hello? This is Sgt. Cinthia Williams speaking. How may I serve you?”
“Cinthia! I’m glad you answered. I was afraid I’d missed you and you had already left for home,” Dr. Marcia McKalister said excitedly into the phone.
“Nope. I’m still here, unfortunately. It’s been a long day. I was just heading out the door.”
“Oh, I’m sorry dear. I apologize for bothering you, but is there any way you can drop by my lab on your way home? I’ve got something I think you ought to see.”
“What is it Marcia? Does this have to do with Kirk Manfrey?”
“I can’t talk about this over the phone, dear. You just need to come down here and see for yourself. But to answer your second question: yes, it does relate to Kirk Manfrey.”
“Ok. Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes tops.”
“I’m not going anywhere, so do me a favor and don’t wreck on your way over here. I’ve done enough autopsies for the day.”
“Yea, yea. I’ll be careful. See you in a few.”
As Cinthia parked her car in the parking lot and raced towards the double automatic doors of the building beside the hospital in downtown Albuquerque that housed Dr. Marcia McKalister’s pathology lab, her heart beat wildly as she wondered what on earth was so important that she needed to present herself in person. Marcia hardly ever called her down to the lab. It was sacred territory to the pathologist. She didn’t want just anyone gaping and gagging at the dead bodies and human remains that she tested and searched, trying to reveal the secrets their breathless bodies could no longer tell. Something was definitely out of the ordinary. Ben must certainly have been mistaken that she was barking up an invisible tree at an imaginary skunk.
Marcia greeted her as she stepped off the elevator and onto the second floor. Cinthia followed her down the hallway to the door of the lab and, as she swiped her keycard through the sensor by the door, Marcia exclaimed, “You’re not going to believe this Cindi.”
“What? What did you find? Was I right about Kirk’s death being no accident?”
“Well, actually, I found nothing wrong, nothing out of the ordinary, which is what gave me a red flag that something was amiss. I obtained access to Manfrey’s health records—he had an annual physical just two weeks ago, and he was perfectly healthy. No high cholesterol, no heart problems or high blood pressure. Nothing that could’ve, or perhaps should’ve, caused death at such a young age. He was only barely twenty-eight, you know?”
“Yes, I know. I went to high school with him, remember?”
“Oh, yes. Now I do remember you mentioning that this morning.”
“Well? So what did you do? Is that all?”
“I’m getting there, dear. Just give me a moment.”
“I’m sorry, Marcia. I’m just eager to know what truly happened to Kirk.”
“It’s okay. Anyway, nothing showed in the preliminary tox screening I sent out, so I ordered a secondary panel that is, um, how should I say it? More extensive? It screens for more than the usual sorts of toxins we see everyday in Albuquerque.”
“I see. Have you gotten that back yet?”
“Yes. It came just half an hour ago, which is why I called you.”
“Well?”
“The results showed trace amounts of aconite, an herb that is very rarely seen in the US, but is one of the most formidable natural poisons that can be found in the world today. It’s also known as ‘Monk’s Hood’ or ‘Wolfs bane.’ ”
“You mean like Wolfs bane from Harry Potter?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“But I thought that was imaginary, made up.”
“Well, J.K. Rowling’s books are fiction, my dear, but certain aspects are not purely fictional. Wolfs bane is real and, unfortunately, usually fatal.”
“You’re funny Marcia. But really, how did it kill Manfrey?”
“That part I’m not sure about. See, aconite is a plant, a flower really. It is native to England, but also can be found in South Wales and other surrounding areas, but not the US. I’m not sure how he came into contact with it. That’s what you have to find out. However, I am sending the contents of his stomach and intestines to be tested. Certain foods, such as curry, disguise the flavor of the aconite herb, so if we can find out what he ate and who served it to him, you might have a lead.”
“Excellent. Marcia, you’re great.”
“Yea, yea. Great…and underappreciated and overworked.”
“Now, that’s not entirely true. What would we do without you?”
“You’d get nowhere fast, that’s for sure. Now wait a minute, don’t go running out that door. There’s more you should know.”
“Yea?”
“If you’re going to start asking questions, you should know some of the symptoms of aconite poisoning. It might help you get somewhere; get a better idea of when exactly Kirk was poisoned. After all, it can take several days or just a few hours for the herb to be fatal after ingestion if left untreated.”
“Right. So what should I know?”
“Symptoms include numbness and tingling in the mouth, cold, pale, and clammy skin, irregular pulse, weakness, nausea and vomiting, as well as difficulty breathing. Victim may feel like ants are crawling all over his body. Often, victim will act giddy while at the same time staggering about; however, the mind remains clear till nearly the end.”
“Wow, that sounds like fun. Seems like he would’ve complained to someone about those symptoms at some point.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“Thanks Marcia. I owe you.”
“Don’t mention it. Now get out of here and solve this mystery. I’ll let you know when I hear anything more.”
Before she even reached the elevator, Cinthia had her phone in her hand and was dialing her partner’s number. He picked up on the first ring.
“Found your skunk?” Ben Michelson asked sarcastically.
“Yea, actually. I did. Can you meet me back at the office for a quick briefing? We may have a long night ahead of us.”
“Yea, I’ll be there in fifteen. And you can leave off the ‘I told you so.’”
“I never even thought about it. See you in a few.” As she hung up the phone and climbed in her car, Cinthia mentally made a list of all the people they should interview before calling her boss to let him in on the situation. An hour later Cinthia and Ben left the office to return to Kirk Manfrey’s home.
The Manfrey home was an impressive mansion in a nice, safe neighborhood. But was any neighborhood really safe these days? Cinthia noted the elaborate landscaping around the house and sophisticated decorations inside that she had ignored during her visit that morning. Now every little detail might hold important evidence. Mrs. Angela Manfrey answered the door with a surprised look on her face.
“Why, hello, I didn’t expect to see the police back so soon. What can I do for you?” she asked politely.
“Mrs. Manfrey, I was here this morning, but I am Sgt. Cinthia Williams and this is my partner Ben Michelson.”
“It’s nice to meet you. Please, call me Angela. Won’t you come in and sit down.” Did she really just bat her eyelashes at Ben? Her husband had only died just this morning!
“As a matter of fact, that would excellent. We need to ask you a few questions, Angela,” Ben said.
“Can I get you a cup of chai tea?” Angela asked without taking her eyes off Ben as they sat on a plush couch in a fancy parlor directly to the right of the front door.
“No thank you,” Ben said quickly. “Angela, when was the last time your saw your husband alive?”
“Well, he didn’t come home until close to ten o’clock on Monday night, and I was already in bed. I heard him come in, but then I was fast asleep.”
“Did your husband wake you up during the night?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, he did. He was tossing and turning non-stop. It was irritating. He said something to me at one point about feeling nauseous, but I figured he was a big boy and could take care of himself.”
“Did he actually vomit? Or did he tell you about feeling oddly in any other way?”
“Like I said, my husband was a big boy. I don’t know if he vomited or not. I wasn’t going to lose a night’s sleep over it. If he needed me, he would’ve gotten me up to help him. I slept, thought not well, till I early Tuesday morning, when I found Kirk dead. Why are you asking all these questions, anyway?”
“I’m afraid we have some bad news,” Ben said, nodding for Cinthia to take over.
“How bad could it be? My husband is dead. It can’t get much worse than that.”
“Mrs. Manfrey,” Cinthia replied, “Your husband’s autopsy report revealed that his death was no accident. He was poisoned.”
“Oh dear me, no! You don’t think I did it, do you?”
“We don’t know who did it. Maybe it was you, you’re certainly a prime suspect; but then again, maybe not. We’d like to ask you some more questions.”
“I can assure you, I did not kill my husband. I would be more than happy to help you in your investigation in any way possible. What would you like to know?”
“Well, for starters, how was your marriage with your husband?”
“You know, it had its ups and downs, but we pull through the downs. My husband liked to look around at other women a lot, so we had a bit of a rocky spell for a while. Nothing that love and devotion to keeping a family together couldn’t fix.” As she spoke she seemed to look at Ben for a reaction.
“I’m glad to hear you’re dedicated to preserving family, Mrs. Manfrey. I understand that you and your husband have a daughter?”
“Yes, Lydia. My pride and joy. She’s upstairs if you’d like to meet her.”
“In a few minutes that would be nice, but we have a few more questions for you first. What was your husband’s job like? Did he work long hours?”
“Kirk worked as an associate in a law firm. He’d been there for three years and was hoping to make partner before too long. He graduated from Vanderbilt University undergraduate and law school, you know. And yes, he worked long hours quite frequently. Most Saturdays he spent in the office, and many nights he didn’t get home till well after dinner—say, 8 or 9 o’clock.”
“Do you have any reason to believe that your husband went anywhere besides the law office when he worked late?”
“No, not really. He was dedicated to his job. I think he went out to eat a lot, but mostly with clients.”
“Did he have any enemies? Anyone who would want him dead?”
“Not that I’m aware of. Perhaps you should talk to the law firm about that. I know that he worked some criminal cases last year.”
“Alright, thank you, Mrs. Manfrey.” After interviewing Lydia Manfrey, who was only seven years old, and gleaning very little helpful information, Cinthia and her partner left the Manfrey mansion without much to go on.
The next morning Cinthia and Ben were at the door of the law firm before opening. Stenciled into the glass door panels in black and gold lettering Cinthia read Schwinn & Jacobs, Partners at Law. She vaguely remembered seeing an ad on television advertising that these brilliant lawyers were the ones for you. Not anymore for one of your associates, she thought. After waiting an interminably long time in the reception area till the lawyers got there, Cinthia and Ben were impatient and frustrated by the time they were ushered into an opulent conference room where head partners Joseph Schwinn and Eleazar Jacobs awaited them. Once they went through formal introductions and explained Kirk Manfrey’s death to his bosses, Cinthia cut right to the chase.
“Did Mr. Manfrey have any enemies in your firm?”
“None that would kill him,” Schwinn took the lead, “ I can assure you of that. There are other associates that are, or should I say were, competing with him for a spot as partner, but all hostilities between the competitors were quite civil, really.”
“Don’t you think that’s a bit contradictory, Mr. Schwinn?”
“Miss, uh, what did you say your name was?”
“Sgt. Williams.”
“Sgt Williams, the legal world is extremely competitive. Whoever doesn’t make partner will be forced back out into the job market and, quite frankly, there are very few prospects these days. Each man must do what he must to be the best. Nothing violent, just hard work, you see.”
“I understand. All the same, we will need to interview Mr. Manfrey’s ‘competitors.’”
“Alright. That can be arranged. Is there anything else you would like to know, or may we return to our busy schedules?”
“Did Mr. Manfrey have an clients who might be upset with him? Or what about the opposing side in one of his cases?”
“Mr. Manfrey has not been assigned to any big-time criminal cases. Those are saved for partners. Perhaps he made someone mad, but I doubt that any of his clients or opponents would be so angered as to murder him. His specialty was civil cases; property disputes, estate folds, etc. Nothing to kill someone over, really.”
“Thank you. That’s all for now, but we may be back for more.”
Cinthia and Ben spent the entire morning and the larger part of the afternoon interviewing lower-ranked partners, associates, secretaries, errand boys, anyone at the firm who might know anything valuable at all. Finally, they met someone who knew something that might prove to be a lead—Kirk Manfrey’s co-associate Fred Snyder, who shared a small office space with him.
“How would your describe your relationship to Kirk Manfrey?” Ben asked Snyder methodically.
“Well, we shared this office space, so we saw a lot of each other. We both, of course, aspired to becoming partners, but we really didn’t consider one another competitors. We were best friends. We roomed together in law school at Vanderbilt and than somehow both landed jobs at this firm right after graduation.”
“Did anyone else from you class at Vanderbilt work here?”
“No, and I don’t think that anyone else applied to be honest. I mean, who wants to practice law in New Mexico after getting a degree in Tennessee? We weren’t exactly the top of our class, you see.”
“Okay. Did anything unusual happen in the last several days? Like did Manfrey act strangely or receive a threat or anything?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, he received an unusual phone call on Monday morning. He told me about it over lunch. A guy that graduated from high school with him called him up, said he’d moved to the area and seen his name in some Schwinn & Jacobs ad, and wanted to reconnect. Kirk said he couldn’t quite put a face with the guy, but he remembered the name in connection to high school, so he agreed to meet the guy for dinner. He thought he was one of his former football buddies or something.”
“What was the guy’s name? Do you remember? Did he tell you?”
“Let’s see, he did. Something Vaughn… started with an ‘r’…Russell I think? Yeah, that’s right. Russell Vaughan.”
“Great. You’re doing just fine Mr. Snyder, just a few more questions and we’ll be through. Did he say when and where he agreed to meet Russell Vaughan?”
“Monday night. He finished up his work early that night, well, at least, early for him. Usually he leaves for home around 8 o’clock, but he was out of here by 6:15 PM Monday night. He said he was going to some Indian restaurant. I can’t remember the name of it. I’m not a big fan of Indian cuisine myself.”
“Alright. Thank you Mr. Snyder, you’ve given us something to go on.”
Back at the Albuquerque police department Cinthia ran Russell Vaughan’s name through the system while Ben searched for Indian restaurants in Albuquerque. Nothing much turned up on Vaughan. He had been charged with a minor in possession of alcohol at age sixteen, but his record had later been expunged. Other than that he had a few speeding tickets, but no criminal activity. Even after seeing his photograph in the system, Cinthia only vaguely remembered seeing the guy in the hallway a few times at their high school. Maybe they’d had a few classes together, but she couldn’t be sure. Ben discovered two Indian restaurants on opposite sides of town. Two wasn’t so bad; they’d expected to find at least ten.
At the first restaurant, Taj Mahal Indian Cuisine, Cinthia and Ben flashed around photos of both Manfrey and Vaughan, but none of the wait staff had seen either of them. No one had any useful information, so they drove across town to the only other avenue left in this lead. As they entered Royal India Cuisine, they began the same procedure they had implemented in the other restaurant of flashing the photos and questioning the wait staff. This time, they got a response on the first try.
“This man is my boss, the owner of Royal India Cuisine,” said the maitre’ d, tapping a long, painted-red fingernail on the photo of Russell Vaughan. “Is he in some kind of trouble?”
“We just need to ask him a few questions,” Cinthia reassured the girl. “Where might we find him?”
“Well, you actually came at a good time because he’s in his office still. It’s right around the corner there,” she said pointing down a hallway in that back that led to the kitchen and bathrooms. “Come on, I’ll take you to him.”
“Mr. Vaughan, there’s some police officers here to see you,” the girl said as she ushered them into his small managerial office and then quickly headed back to her station by the front door. As they entered, Cinthia saw a startled look on Vaughan’s face that he quickly smoothed into a smile. After introducing themselves, they began questioning him.
“Did you have dinner with this man, Kirk Manfrey, on Monday night?” Cinthia asked, showing Vaughan the photo.
“Yes, I did. Is that a problem?”
“Well, it all depends. Could be. How did you know Manfrey?”
“From high school. I moved to the area a few months ago and I found out that he lives here as well, so I contacted him. You know, new place, new faces; it’s nice to have a face that you recognize.”
“Were you and Manfrey close friends in high school?”
“No, not really.”
“Are you aware that Kirk Manfrey was found dead on Tuesday morning in his home?”
“No, I was not. How awful! What happened?”
“We thought you might know something about that, Mr. Vaughan.”
“You don’t think I killed him do you? He left here around 8:45 PM on Monday night after we ate dinner and he seemed quite alright then.”
“What did Manfrey have to eat for dinner?”
“Let me see, I’m not sure if I can remember.”
“It was only a day ago, Mr. Vaughan. I’m sure you can remember. You work in the food business; food is your livelihood. I’m sure you remember what he ate. I remember what I ate Monday night—a grilled cheese sandwich, a can of Campbell’s tomato soup, a glass of ice water…”
“Alright, alright. I get your point. I believe he had two of our house specialties—Spinach Curry and Lamb Bhuna. They are quite delicious, a real taste of India.”
“Did you, Mr. Vaughan, poison Mr. Manfrey?”
“What? Are you serious? That’s preposterous! Why would I do a thing like that?”
“That’s what we’d like to know, Mr. Vaughan. May we search the premises?”
“Can I see a search warrant, please?”
“We don’t have one, but don’t worry, we’ll get one.”
As Cinthia and Ben stepped outside the restaurant at the demand of the angry proprietor, they discussed the case.
“I think he did it, or at least knows something about it,” Cinthia said. “Did you see how defensive he got?”
“Yea, I do too. Let’s get that search warrant.”
Within an hour they miraculously had the warrant in their hands, and forensics was combing the place. Vaughan sat on a barstool, visibly nervous and angry while they searched his office. In a discreet corner of the pantry in the kitchen Ben found an unfamiliar purplish flower. As he brought it out to ask Cinthia about it, Vaughan’s eyes grew wide and he bolted for the door. He didn’t get far because Cinthia side tackled him, pinning him to the floor and cuffing him quickly before he could get away. With her knee on Vaughan’s back riveting him firmly to the ground, Cinthia looked up at her partner breathlessly and said, “Ben, that’s it! That’s aconite! It looks just like the pictures Marcia showed me at the lab. I think we’ve got our killer!”
Ben smiled and stepped forward to help Cinthia up and read Russell Vaughan his Miranda rights. “You are under arrest for the murder of Kirk Manfrey. You have the right to remain silent. Everything you say can and will be used against you…” When he finished, Vaughan was laughing.
“I’m surprised your stupid police department even figured out that Manfrey was murdered, but you know what, I don’t care. You’re right, I did it! I killed the bastard. It was all too easy, but I got justice. I got revenge.”
“Why did you do it?” Cinthia asked.
“You don’t know? I’m surprised you didn’t do it before me. Do you not remember that son of a bitch from high school? He beat me up in the locker room more than once. When they said I got a broken nose in practice and couldn’t play any more football my senior year, it ruined my chances of going to college. But I didn’t break it in practice—Manfrey did it to me in the locker room.”
“Why didn’t you just turn him in?”
“I couldn’t. He blackmailed me! Said if I ever told on him marijuana would mysteriously appear in my belongings and an anonymous tip would set the school officials on me immediately. I didn’t have a chance. No one would’ve believed me, a third string running back, over the star football player, especially after I’d already been arrested for a minor in possession of alcohol, which was also his doing, mind you. But that’s not all, oh no, not at all. He cheated off me on every test, from sixth till twelfth grade. He stole my lunch money. Knocked up my girlfriend. Worst of all he had his dad fire my mom from her job. We were dirt poor trying to live off her measly secretarial wages as it was, but that just completely ruined us. That bully, he not only manhandled me during school but he immobilized me so that when my mom developed cancer, we had no way to pay for treatment. She died within three months. It was all that bastard’s fault. He got what he deserved.”
Later, when Russell Vaughan was behind bars and Cinthia and Ben were back in their office finishing up paperwork before calling it a night, Ben said, “You know, our conversation yesterday sure is ironic. You really could’ve been the killer, Mt. Vesuvius.”
Half-heartedly throwing a punch his way, Cinthia replied, “I know. I was thinking about that too. I guess hate, not just aconite, is the queen of all poisons.”
Divorce Dialogue
“Are you drinking again?”
“Wouldn’t you if you were in my shoes?”
“I’m not criticizing you. I’m just worried is all.”
“Well, don’t be. I’m a big girl.”
“That’s just it. I’m afraid you’re going to do something that you will live to regret.”
“Honey, life’s full of regrets. You should know that by now.”
“I know. I wish it weren’t that way.”
“Yea, me too. But I know this is right. He’s got to go.”
“Maybe so, but I think he’s walking all over you.”
“I want to be nice. This wasn’t supposed to be one of those hostile divorces like you see on Divorce Court on tv.”
“I know, but this is divorce. You have to stand up for yourself. All’s fair in love in war, and this definitely falls under the category of war.”
“I don’t know. I feel like I’ve already gotten so much from him. I’ve gotten Lizzy, after all. He didn’t even fight me over that one. All he wanted for custody rights was two weekends a month, plus he agreed to pay for her college tuition when the time comes. How could I ask for more than that?”
“Sweetheart, he’s just working the system. It’ll make him look better to the courts if he agrees to pay for Lizzy’s college. That way it’ll seem like he actually cares about her.”
“Well, she is his daughter—his only child.”
“That means nothing to him; you know that. How many times have you complained to be about Mike’s absence as a father? How often did you call me in tears because he disrespected you and overturned your decision right in front of Lizzy, teaching her to dishonor you as well? Think about it, Suzanne!”
“I know, Julie! Okay? I know! You don’t have to remind me.”
“I think I do. You’re about to let him walk away with the house, and you certainly aren’t getting sufficient alimony from him. Have you thought about the fact that you might have to get back out in the job market again, honey?”
“I’m just so sick of fighting him. I loved Mike so much! You know that… we were always that couple. Who would’ve ever thought we’d come to this?”
“I know, sweetie, I know. But that doesn’t change reality.”
“I just wish that we could work this out. Maybe I should give him another chance…”
“Suzanne, we’ve been through this before. I never thought I’d be the one saying you should quit on this marriage, but put it on the record—I think you need out of this. There’s no hope left. You’ve tried everything, but you can’t control him. It’s his decision to cheat, to lie. You gave him the second chance—you even went through the emotions of renewing your vows with this guy. You’ve done your part, so now you have to let him go…just don’t let him drag you down with him.”
“Yea, you’re right. But can’t a girl dream?”
“Look honey, if you dream about this, you’re going to end up run over. Mike doesn’t love you anymore, and so he’s not looking out for your best interests. He’s looking out for himself. He’ll drag you through the mud if you don’t wake up to that.”
“I know, Julie. I’ve tried to give him up, to get over him, but I can’t. I still can’t believe all that he’s done to me. Part of me hates him, but part of me still loves him, and I can’t resolve those feelings.”
“It’s okay. You’re still in shock over it all. But you really need to push your feelings aside and think about this from the logical, legal point of view. After you get the settlement worked out, then you can go back to feeling.”
“And you’re sure it’s not hateful to want more money? To expect him to give me the quality of life he promised to provide for me if we’d remained married for another twenty years?”
“Yes, I promise. He promised till death do us part, and since he’s broken that vow, he should provide for you at the least.”
“I don’t want to take all of his money though.”
“Trust me honey, he’s got plenty go to around. You don’t have to worry about him running out of money. Besides, if he simply put some effort into his work he’d move up the food chain faster than you can say so.”
“Yeah, I you’re right. I need to live and let go. If I don’t, then I’m going to end up at destitute drunkard. I’m going to get out of him every penny that I can, and I’m going to show Lizzy that she comes from a long line of strong women. No man is going to bring me down that easily!”
“You can say that again! Now, give me that bottle of wine you’ve been hiding… I think it’s safe to say you don’t need anything stronger than soda with a backbone as stout as yours.”
“Wouldn’t you if you were in my shoes?”
“I’m not criticizing you. I’m just worried is all.”
“Well, don’t be. I’m a big girl.”
“That’s just it. I’m afraid you’re going to do something that you will live to regret.”
“Honey, life’s full of regrets. You should know that by now.”
“I know. I wish it weren’t that way.”
“Yea, me too. But I know this is right. He’s got to go.”
“Maybe so, but I think he’s walking all over you.”
“I want to be nice. This wasn’t supposed to be one of those hostile divorces like you see on Divorce Court on tv.”
“I know, but this is divorce. You have to stand up for yourself. All’s fair in love in war, and this definitely falls under the category of war.”
“I don’t know. I feel like I’ve already gotten so much from him. I’ve gotten Lizzy, after all. He didn’t even fight me over that one. All he wanted for custody rights was two weekends a month, plus he agreed to pay for her college tuition when the time comes. How could I ask for more than that?”
“Sweetheart, he’s just working the system. It’ll make him look better to the courts if he agrees to pay for Lizzy’s college. That way it’ll seem like he actually cares about her.”
“Well, she is his daughter—his only child.”
“That means nothing to him; you know that. How many times have you complained to be about Mike’s absence as a father? How often did you call me in tears because he disrespected you and overturned your decision right in front of Lizzy, teaching her to dishonor you as well? Think about it, Suzanne!”
“I know, Julie! Okay? I know! You don’t have to remind me.”
“I think I do. You’re about to let him walk away with the house, and you certainly aren’t getting sufficient alimony from him. Have you thought about the fact that you might have to get back out in the job market again, honey?”
“I’m just so sick of fighting him. I loved Mike so much! You know that… we were always that couple. Who would’ve ever thought we’d come to this?”
“I know, sweetie, I know. But that doesn’t change reality.”
“I just wish that we could work this out. Maybe I should give him another chance…”
“Suzanne, we’ve been through this before. I never thought I’d be the one saying you should quit on this marriage, but put it on the record—I think you need out of this. There’s no hope left. You’ve tried everything, but you can’t control him. It’s his decision to cheat, to lie. You gave him the second chance—you even went through the emotions of renewing your vows with this guy. You’ve done your part, so now you have to let him go…just don’t let him drag you down with him.”
“Yea, you’re right. But can’t a girl dream?”
“Look honey, if you dream about this, you’re going to end up run over. Mike doesn’t love you anymore, and so he’s not looking out for your best interests. He’s looking out for himself. He’ll drag you through the mud if you don’t wake up to that.”
“I know, Julie. I’ve tried to give him up, to get over him, but I can’t. I still can’t believe all that he’s done to me. Part of me hates him, but part of me still loves him, and I can’t resolve those feelings.”
“It’s okay. You’re still in shock over it all. But you really need to push your feelings aside and think about this from the logical, legal point of view. After you get the settlement worked out, then you can go back to feeling.”
“And you’re sure it’s not hateful to want more money? To expect him to give me the quality of life he promised to provide for me if we’d remained married for another twenty years?”
“Yes, I promise. He promised till death do us part, and since he’s broken that vow, he should provide for you at the least.”
“I don’t want to take all of his money though.”
“Trust me honey, he’s got plenty go to around. You don’t have to worry about him running out of money. Besides, if he simply put some effort into his work he’d move up the food chain faster than you can say so.”
“Yeah, I you’re right. I need to live and let go. If I don’t, then I’m going to end up at destitute drunkard. I’m going to get out of him every penny that I can, and I’m going to show Lizzy that she comes from a long line of strong women. No man is going to bring me down that easily!”
“You can say that again! Now, give me that bottle of wine you’ve been hiding… I think it’s safe to say you don’t need anything stronger than soda with a backbone as stout as yours.”
Leaving Home: When It All Changes
When you’re a child you may throw a temper tantrum and flat-out refuse to do something. You may not budge, forcing someone else to exert power over you to cause you to move or do something. Unfortunately, although you may wish to revert to such childlike behavior when required to do something undesirable as an adult, you are expected to assume responsibility, to man up or suck-it-up and do the task at hand. There is no one there to fouce you to take action, and so you must exert will-power upon yourself to complete the required deed. Temper tantrums are unacceptable. If you don’t help yourself, no one is going to be there to do it for you. It’s do our fail . It’s take action or cease to live life.
All of these thoughts were going through my head as I left home yesterday. It surprised me how I’ve come such a full-circle to feel any remorse at leaving my hometown, the parents, the arguments, etcetera. But I think it has finally hit me, This is it! I am practically on my own already, but come May I’m going to be completely cut free. No more Daddy pasy for this and that. No more summer breaks full of rest and relaxation, fun and freedom. No more school to go back to in the fall. No more hopes of transferring to a larger state university. No more college life. No more drinking-is-illegal. You name it, this is it!
I’ve had such a flood of emotions over the pas couple of days. Finality. Excitement. Remorse. Possibility. Joy. Fear. Anxiety. Freedom. Love. I’ve said goodbye to my grandparents, quite possibility for the last time in this life. That is no easy task to complete dry-eyed, and you can’t cry because they’ll know why. Be strong, I tell myself, but it’s all a sham. I’ve finally grown to appreciate home. Is it too late? Should I ever consider living closer to home again? I don’t understand my parents, and I’ve come to accept that fact, but I love them, I know. I want my relationship with God to grow this year, but I’m scared it won’t. I’m scared I’ll keep making huge mistakes and choosing my desires. And with the gray issues—I have so many of my own beliefs to resolve.
I am flying home tomorrow afternoon. We decided just a few short hours ago. This is perhaps the most spurt-of-the-moment, spontaneous trip I’ve ever taken. It means so much to me that dad would work to book me a flight home for Labor Day Weekend less than twenty-four hours before departure. It’s almost surreal. I mentioned to mom on Wednesday that I wish we’d thought ahead to book a flight for her to come out to school to see me this weekend. Of course, with the grandparents’ health the way it is, leaving town is not an option for her. So we both expressed sentiments that it would be great if I could fly home. Although she said she’d talk to Dad and we’d see, I knew not to get my hopes up. Thursday afternoon she called me to tell me it wouldn’t work out, only to have dad call me about an hour later to ask me if I was still interested in coming home. Although we had some flight credit and frequent flyer miles, it still cost him a couple extra hundred dollars to fly me home. I deeply appreciate this. It’s one huge, tangible way that they are showing their love towards me. Were I to stay here at school, I’d spend a lonely weekend researching, reading, and watching tv, or else getting into trouble I probably should avoid.
All of these thoughts were going through my head as I left home yesterday. It surprised me how I’ve come such a full-circle to feel any remorse at leaving my hometown, the parents, the arguments, etcetera. But I think it has finally hit me, This is it! I am practically on my own already, but come May I’m going to be completely cut free. No more Daddy pasy for this and that. No more summer breaks full of rest and relaxation, fun and freedom. No more school to go back to in the fall. No more hopes of transferring to a larger state university. No more college life. No more drinking-is-illegal. You name it, this is it!
I’ve had such a flood of emotions over the pas couple of days. Finality. Excitement. Remorse. Possibility. Joy. Fear. Anxiety. Freedom. Love. I’ve said goodbye to my grandparents, quite possibility for the last time in this life. That is no easy task to complete dry-eyed, and you can’t cry because they’ll know why. Be strong, I tell myself, but it’s all a sham. I’ve finally grown to appreciate home. Is it too late? Should I ever consider living closer to home again? I don’t understand my parents, and I’ve come to accept that fact, but I love them, I know. I want my relationship with God to grow this year, but I’m scared it won’t. I’m scared I’ll keep making huge mistakes and choosing my desires. And with the gray issues—I have so many of my own beliefs to resolve.
I am flying home tomorrow afternoon. We decided just a few short hours ago. This is perhaps the most spurt-of-the-moment, spontaneous trip I’ve ever taken. It means so much to me that dad would work to book me a flight home for Labor Day Weekend less than twenty-four hours before departure. It’s almost surreal. I mentioned to mom on Wednesday that I wish we’d thought ahead to book a flight for her to come out to school to see me this weekend. Of course, with the grandparents’ health the way it is, leaving town is not an option for her. So we both expressed sentiments that it would be great if I could fly home. Although she said she’d talk to Dad and we’d see, I knew not to get my hopes up. Thursday afternoon she called me to tell me it wouldn’t work out, only to have dad call me about an hour later to ask me if I was still interested in coming home. Although we had some flight credit and frequent flyer miles, it still cost him a couple extra hundred dollars to fly me home. I deeply appreciate this. It’s one huge, tangible way that they are showing their love towards me. Were I to stay here at school, I’d spend a lonely weekend researching, reading, and watching tv, or else getting into trouble I probably should avoid.
Changing Seasons—Summer to Fall: The Struggle I Undergo Each Year
I am sitting in the grass and pine straw in the sun beneath a pine tree in the disc-golf field between the BAC and the US-45 Bypass, between the Lifeway Christian Stores building and the woods near the soccer fields. It is a beautiful Sunday afternoon, four o’clock to be precise. Blue sky (Carolina blue to be exact, even though if Dad were here he’d ridiculously argue that it’s Duke blue) without a cloud to be seen. I can just see one clock face of the belltower, and the jutting lightning rod shooting into the sky like the pointed tip of a bayonet. The grass is still green, although on my walk over here I tread upon several blades that were beginning to turn brown. An American flag in vivid color is fluttering its red and white stripes in the winds, its blue square full of starts partially wrapped around its pole by the chapel. I can just see the night-spotlights of the baseball field above the treetops. Although the sun is still quite warm on my skin, Fall is in the air—that crisp smell that hints of frost soon to come. When I walked by the fountain earlier today, I caught myself looking for the changing color of the leaves. Indeed, in ove of the red maples by the fountain circle I spotted one lone cherry-red leaf amidst the sea of green. I couldn’t help myself—I had to pause and take a picture with my phone. The air feels clean and the sun less harsh, yet I have mixed feelings about the return of the Fall. I dearly love the summer, and I hate to see it go, yet there is a sort of expectancy about the changing of the season that I relish. A hope of things to come. A nearing to a finish line. Of death so that there can be rebirth. I knew the summer must come to an end, but somehow I’m never prepared to let it go. I’m never quite ready to hide my skin under layers of fabric, to dread setting foot outdoors into the chill air, to switch the thermostat to heat from cool. I love the outdoors, the sun on my skin, I hate the cold and would much rather seat. To me, this changing of the seasons brings holiday celebrations of family and giving and love. Such a struggle I have with the passing of the summ
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)