Someday Over Yonder--10 ,11, 12

10

I mulled over Elizabeth Wilder's account. The poor woman lost her husband and son in one tragic event. Overwhelmed with despair, she instinctively seized an opportunity to squelch the demons that threatened her sanity. I couldn't condone her actions, but I could certainly empathize with her. Trying to locate Noah's family would have placed her on higher ground, morally, but I wasn't sure that a sick person inventing stories was culpable. Was it a crime to love and embrace a lost soul? I remembered my last embrace with aunt Betsy, knowing how she must have felt after all those years. The regret of not caring for her sister's baby must have been a heavy burden indeed. Having lost my father in Vietnam and my mother in a mental asylum, all before I was one-year old, my heart grieved for Elixabeth Wilder.

Exposing Elizabeth to the authorities wouldn't accomplish anything. As far as I could tell, she didn't know anything. My interview hadn't uncovered one bit of useful information, other than her voluntary forfeiture of the dog tag. Now that I knew Noah's real name, I presumed that it would be easier to find the answers he deserved. What I didn't know was whether or not he could emotionally handle the information. I wanted to prepare Noah. Not only for the day he found out Elizabeth Wilder wasn't his biological mother, but also for whatever else might come his way. Without question, the length of this preparation needed to balance against the possibility that Noah might have a grieving family waiting for his return. To the best of Mrs. Wilders' recollection, Noah had been with her eight or nine years, she wasn't sure.


The other pressing consideration was that of the dark-suited observer. I explained to Noah that his mother believed someone was after him. He thought this was likely one of her "special fears", but agreed to succumb to my wishes. While I watched for a tall, black man to appear, Noah stayed inside and never answered the phone. Three weeks of observations failed to produce any results. We gradually returned to our normal schedule, which wasn't too soon for Noah. He was going stir crazy, not to mention Hobo's dissatisfaction.

Our return to Eden Park was glorious, a homecoming of sorts. During our first picnic, we witnessed a father teaching his son to fly a kite. At first, the boy was unable to keep the purple triangle in the air. It repeatedly crashed, despite his best efforts. Discouragement enveloped the youngster. All at once, a strong breeze lifted the kite above the treetops, soaring higher and higher. The proud son shouted with glee and looked for his father's approval--his father's satisfied expression sealed the moment. It was the kind of moment that I had only dreamed of, and Noah couldn't remember. We sat with our backs against the gazebo and watched the wonder of it all.

Noah's face lit up; he touched my shoulder. It seemed, as if for the first time, that Noah realized how wonderful his past memories could be. Of course, this is speculation on my part. But for the remainder of the afternoon, immersed in spring's eternal promise, we strolled side-by-side through the standing groves sharing our deepest thoughts. I convinced Noah that if he'd try, it might be possible to recover his memories. So, quickly, and without acrimony, we devised a plan for his monthly meetings with his court-appointed psychiatrist. Noah would share everything with the doctor, including the memories of his mother, without revealing her name and location. That satisfied Noah.

Unlike Noah's caseworker, Miss Wallace, who never had a pleasant word, Noah's psychiatrist, Dr. Herndon, was a kind man and took a genuine interest in my companion. He was an older gentleman with gray hair and wasn't on the team that originally examined Noah. The experienced psychiatrist determined at once that Noah had been misdiagnosed, although, Noah's inability to remember further back than a couple years remained a quandary for the doctor. It occured to me, this was the obstacle that perplexed Julie Clemens, and probably why the court's mental-health personnel bungled the diagnosis in the first place.

Dr. Herndon scheduled an EKG, MRI, and a complete blood workup. As you may recall, Noah had a fear of doctors. Talking was one thing, poking and prodding was an entirely different matter. Noah balked at having the tests done, which prompted the second part of my plan--adding Julie Clemens to pizza night. Julie and I had several phone conversations, which Noah was aware of. I agreed to have Julie over if he'd go for the tests. It was like throwing a stick for Hobo. I admit that the pizza tasted better with Julie Clemens there; not withstanding, the awkward moments commenced almost immediately.

For the first hour, Noah kept saying, "I'm surely glad to see you, Julie." He made such a fuss that Hobo was dumbfounded. After dinner Noah gave Julie the grand tour of his room. Hobo, tired of being ignored, eventually gave up and sat with me.

"Hank gave me his bed, on account of me being so big and all."

"Were you big as a child?" I heard Julie ask--and I knew it had begun. She interrogated Noah for over an hour. He had an answer for every question; she was getting frustrated. Her attempts to invoke Noah's memories were also making him uncomfortable. I didn't know what I expected, but this wasn't it. The process wasn't anything like I imagined.

"What about photographs?" Julie asked. "You have seen photos of yourself, haven't you?"

"Momma said a fire destroyed all of our family pictures. She was sad over that."

"I bet she was," Julie said.

I detected a cynical tone in her voice and decided it was time for the movie. My selection was Black Beauty, the 1994 screenplay adaptation of Ana Sewell's novel. I wanted to expose Noah to as many life lessons as possible, and knew no better way to prepare him for what was rapidly approaching.

"Everyone get a seat, it's time for Black Beauty."

"I've never read that," Julie said, cracking a smile. "I heard it was from the horse's point of view?"

"Yeah. It lets the reader know what the animals think of their masters."

"I know what Hobo thinks of me," Noah said. "You love me, don't cha boy?"

Hobo let out his happy bark, did a couple quick spins, and we settled in for the festivities. Julie spent more time watching Noah than she did the movie. It was obvious that she was weighted down with unanswered questions.

After a unanimous decision, we stopped for intermission. While Noah explained the finer points of the saga to Hobo, I decided on microwave popcorn.

"Are you religious?" Julie asked, following me into the kitchen.

"Chapel service was mandatory at the orphanage, but I never derived any comfort from it."

"You grew up in an orphanage?"

"My father got killed in Vietnam, and my mother died before I was one.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't know that infants were sent to orphanages."

"The foster system shuffled me around until I was five, then I was sent away. If you don't mind, I really don't like talking about it."

"I understand," Julie said. "That's a terrible run of bad luck."

"That's sorta of the way I see it. To imagine a God that caused, or allowed, these things to happen is a frightening thought. Don't you think?"

"I do. My father was murdered when I was twelve. He was a detective and a devout Catholic; still, there is a part of me that doesn't want to abandon my faith. Sound crazy?"

"No, it doesn't sound crazy. I never had any faith to abandon, that's all. I don't know whether that's fortunate or unfortunate. I'm sorry about your father. Did they catch the guilty party?"

"No, but I've never given up," Julie said, gathering the drinks. "Ya know, just because I didn't make any progress with Noah, it doesn't mean I'm going to give up. I'll never give up."


The next week, after Noah's meeting with the psychiatrist, Julie methodically questioned Noah for two hours; pushing him further than I thought was necessary. According to Julie, a certain level of pressure was needed to alter his subconscious. Noah's headaches were getting worse and I insisted she lighten up, fearing the sessions might provoke an episode. Julie backed off; reluctantly admitting no progress had been made. She thought it would be beneficial to visit Noah's mother. This, of course, I wouldn't do. Julie's visits became less frequent, although, pizza and movie night remained sacred. She never let Noah and Hobo down.

I was pushing Julie away, a regrettable sacrifice. I was comforted in the knowledge that Noah's welfare guided my decisions. With the risk of sounding like a schoolboy, I can assure you that that didn't make it any easier. Even though I knew Julie's interest was in Noah, occasionally, the way she glanced at me tantalized my imagination. Besides her good looks and intellect, she had a delightful quality that most people sadly lacked--a fresh sincerity. Although, there was something, something I couldn't put my finger on, something odd and contrary to her nature--sort of a hesitation that formed an invisible barrier between us. As mysterious or enticing as this all was, it was secondary to my primary concern. I knew that I couldn't delay the inevitable much longer. I had to find out who John Silver was.

My new foreman agreed to let me leave work early for Noah's appointments. Tuesday's meeting with the obtuse probation officer was the low point of Noah's week. The man took pleasure in being rude, and Noah often came out of the office depressed. I learned, after a few inquiries, that the officer had been divorced three times. He didn't look much older than me.

On this Tuesday, like always, I waited in the hallway for the session to end. I noticed a policeman having a conversation with a tall, well-dressed black man, who exited an office behind the counter and kept glancing in my direction. It appeared he held a position of authority--maybe a detective. I started processing the possibilities; it suddenly felt warmer in the building. Noah's session was due the end at any moment. If this was Mrs. Wilders' observer, chances were that he already knew Noah was here. If not, he would soon find out. I didn't like the odds either way. I chuckled, thinking my imagination was getting the better of me. My logical side pointed out how many well-dressed black men there were in the city, and it also appeared he was preparing to leave. Of course, that didn't happen. He strolled right up to me.

"Excuse me," he said, cordially. "You're Hank Maddox, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am."

"My name is Reggie Dean. I'm a detective with the Fourth Precinct. Noah is living with you while he's on probation, correct?"

"That's right."

"It seems that Noah fits the description of a potential witness in a cold case I'm working on. If you don't mind, I'd like to ask you both a few questions.

"What can I help you with?"

"Does Noah have any family that you know of?"

"Not that I'm aware of. What exactly is the nature of this cold case?"

"It's a murder investigation of a Cincinnati detective. Unfortunately, that's all I'll be able to tell ya. This will only take a minute. It's my understanding that Noah has a memory problem."

"That's right. He won't be able to help you."

"Do you know anyone else that might be able to help, like someone Noah has lived or spent time with?"

At this point, Noah came shuffling out of the office and interrupted the lie that I was about to tell. Detective Dean appeared unfazed. He chatted with Noah three or four minutes, thanked us, and went on his way. It amounted to little more than a routine conversation concerning Noah's scars. I figured this was indeed the well-dressed observer, but there was no way to be sure. If he had followed us the day I met Elizabeth Wilder, he knew that I had just lied to him, but he didn't call me on it. Why? Something was wrong; I just couldn't decipher what it was. After Noah's session with Mr. Congeniality, and this added intrusion with the detective, Noah looked more depressed than usual.

"I'll be glad when my year is over, Hank. This probation fella sure is unhappy. And he sure isn't very friendly. I'm not convinced he has the right job, ya know, trying to help people and all. All he does is keep telling me how unlucky I am. Do you think I'm unlucky?" Noah asked.

"No. I think you pegged him--he's unhappy. I bet he doesn't have a dog like Hobo. And I know he doesn't have a friend like you."

"You're something, Hank. Ya know that's the way I feel, until I come over here. I'm getting tired of everybody's questions, just too many questions. And that caseworker lady said my room was awful messy for a grown man. Hobo and me just hadn't picked up yet. Maybe we should move away from this place. Maybe we should take Momma and get out of here--yeah, just you, Hobo, Momma, and me. We could go where people wouldn't ask so many questions," Noah pleaded.

"Things will get better," I insisted. "All we have to do is keep digging the ditch." Noah gave me a half-baked look and let the comment pass. In the van, I handed Noah a car magazine and he flipped through the shiny pages, while I dissected Dean's conversation.

Ascertaining information about Noah and me wouldn't have been a big deal. After all, he was a detective. Since Noah looked like a potential witness, it was logical to ask about his facial scars. Noah said that he couldn't remember how he got them. Noah didn't trip up, thank goodness. He had told me they were from a car accident when he was very young--an implanted memory from Elizabeth Wilder, I suppose.

A cold case, murder investigation of a detective wasn't much to go on. I wondered if Julie might be able to help. Her dad was a detective. I felt ill. That invisible barrier that separated Julie and me--that seemed contrary to her nature--ruthlessly materialized. For a second, it was as plain as the traffic signal turning red. I stopped the van, hurt, angry, betrayed. Was it possible? Did Julie Clemens really believe that Noah killed her father? It seemed farfetched. Yet, a complete stranger taking such an interest in Noah was remarkable. So remarkable, in fact, that it could be considered suspicious. A conglomeration of emotions overwhelmed me. I felt lost, alone, frightened. A crowd filled the crosswalk. A hotdog vender hawked his wares, and the bars and restaurants along Main Street prepared for the evening trade. The light changed. Tomorrow was pizza night.

Noah was getting restless to see his mother. Actually, it was more than that. His behavior started to worry me. The encounter with Detective Dean intensified the situation. I decided on four things: to call off tomorrow's pizza night, contact the Veterans Administration, tell Noah the truth about his mother, and take him to see her. I dispensed of the first item in short order, explaining to Julie Clemens that Noah didn't feel well. I decided to call the VA the next day. I'd been searching for the strength to accomplish number three ever since Elizabeth told me that she wasn't Noah's biological mother. I also needed to face Julie, but that would have to wait.

I figured that we had received our share of bad news. Yet, moments after finishing supper the phone rang. Dr. Herndon's voice had an apologetic cadence. He informed me that Noah's tests results were in and he wanted to see me. I hoped it wasn't bad news; his tone suggested otherwise. Noah and Hobo romped through the apartment, hindering the conversation. I lost my temper and sent them to their room. On the way to the doctor's office--really before that--I regretted my harsh outburst.

The doctor asked me to sit down and got straight to the point.

"Noah has a brain tumor in an advanced condition," he said, "which is an aggressive type of glioma. This explains his headaches, vomiting, muscle spasms, visual disturbances, and his unique personality changes."

It felt like a container full of nuts and bolts dropped on my chest. I must have gone pale; the doctor brought water and fanned my face with a magazine.

"What can be done?" I finally got out.

"These tumors undergo malignant transformation," Doc said. "Normally, we would operate. Many of these cases have a five-year survival rate, additional radiation therapy or chemotherapy follows."

"What do you mean normally?"

"Mr. Maddox, Noah doesn't have insurance. This is an on-going and expensive proposition. I've checked with my superiors; all we can do is put you in touch with hospice. They can keep him comfortable. I'm truly sorry."

"What about a biopsy, to be sure?"

The doctor's face was empathetic. "A biopsy would require a craniotomy, an expensive procedure. And we're certain it would confirm our findings," he said, continuing to fan me. "If Noah had insurance, or . . ."

"What if Noah were a veteran?"

"Have you made some discovery that I'm unaware of?"

"Doc, his name is John Silver. I only recently found out; I haven't told him yet. He doesn't respond to the name."

I came prepared and handed the dog tag to Dr. Herndon. He thumbed through the chart and his countenance brightened.

"The blood type matches! This is a stroke of luck. Are you sure this tag belongs to Noah?"

"Absolutely."

"It will have to be verified," Doc said, fumbling through some papers. "I'll contact the Veteran's Administration and get the paperwork started. If everything checks out, and they admit him, the operation can be performed there.

"Is the tumor why he can't remember?"

"No. Intracranial pressure produces a lack of blood flow, which causes the brain to labor to keep up with its workload. This can cause increased cognitive skills and higher knowledge recall and problem solving skills, which explains Noah's extraordinary insight into human nature, but it doesn't explain his inability to remember his childhood. I'm still convinced that he has amnesia. I've grown quite fond of Noah. I want to follow his case to its final resolution."

The words "final resolution" ran a chill up my back.

"Mr. Maddox . . .it's imperative that you tell Noah immediately, so we can deal with any psychological problems that might arise. The hospital will be calling him by his real name. I want to see him as soon as he's told."

"We're lucky to have ya, Doc."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves--a long, hard road awaits us. If we get Noah,
John I mean, admitted, he stands a good chance."

"A good chance. I thought you said there was a ninety-percent survival rate?"

"The operation is very dangerous; anything can happen."

The doctor's office was on Burnett, an avenue laden with hospitals and medical buildings, a short drive from the Efficiency. Sickness and death were all around me. Instead of going home, I stopped at the corner bar. Commerce was sparse; three somber barflies sat in meditation. Know it All Harry was filling the coolers.

My head ached. Should Elizabeth Wilder be with me when I told Noah? That might be asking for trouble, I thought. No. I would tell Noah the truth; then, if he wanted to see her, I would take him. I felt like I was going to pass out. An Irish whiskey appeared before me. The smooth liquor went down easy, and I noticed Guitar Slim sitting in the shadows tuning a slide guitar. I heard Harry's voice, like in a dream, say, "Slim, quit jiving brother. If you're too cheap to play that jukebox, do us a number man, quit playin' around."

One movement of his hand made the steel strings resonate. The metallic vibration encircled the room, ricocheted off the walls, through the glasses hanging above the bar and raised the hair on the back of my neck, preparing the way for Slim's blues. His voice followed in a soulful, mournful, tone--oscillating and stretching to get the good out of every syllable.

"Sometimes I feel like a motherless child, sometimes I feel like a motherless child, sometimes I feel like a motherless child, such a long, long way from home."

11

The next morning I rose early and prepared a picnic, my grief temporarily lifted. Noah came moping into the kitchen, still perturbed that I cancelled pizza night. He loved Julie, even though he was tiring of her tedious sessions. I suppose she was developing into a proxy for Noah's mother.

"I think you should've ask Hobo and me," Noah said, pushing his bangs out of his eyes. "It mighta hurt Julie's feelings."

"Listen, you told me that you were getting tired of all the questions. I thought you could use a break. Hey, you want to get a haircut today?"

"Why ain't you at work?"

"I called in sick."

"Are ya sick, Hank?"

"No, I'm taking the day off," I said, hoping I didn't have to explain myself. "I thought we deserved some extra time together. Heck! I might take the rest of the week off. We've never had a vacation, what do ya think of that?"

"Could we go see Momma?"

"We just might do that later this week, how's that sound?"

"I'm gonna wash up, right now! And tell Hobo."

"You don't have to worry about cleaning your room," I said. "We're going to have some fun today."

"What if the caseworker lady comes?"

"We'll tell her we're on vacation and see how she likes that."

The news turned Noah into a new person. He sorely missed his mother. Yet I wondered how he would feel after I told him the truth. And that was exactly what I was going to do, tell him everything. Being fairly sure that Detective Reggie Dean was the dark-suited observer, I figured it was safe for Noah to travel to Delhi Hills.

During this entire time, I had only returned once. A depressing occasion to say the least. Convinced that she would never see Noah again, Elizabeth Wilder had taken to recording, in long hand, every conversation that ever transpired between them. It was unbelievable. She had hundreds of pages stacked on the dining room table. And while I was there, she interrupted the meticulous vigil only long enough to serve tea and ask about Noah. Nothing I said comforted her. A neighbor boy agreed to bring her groceries and maintain the lawn: the only positive development I determined.

Noah emerged from his room looking quite spiffy. He had on a nice denim shirt and a pair of jeans that we found at a yard sale (where a family of big and tall people lived), polished cowboy boots, and, of course, his derby hat. Hobo was turning in circles, showing off a red bandana. I even donned an unworn cap that I purchased at the Cincinnati Blues Festival back in 2000. We packed up the van and headed over the hill.

I took Walnut Street and turned on Pete Rose Way, which always gave me pause. It appeared they were never going to let Pete into Baseball's Hall of Fame, which I didn't agree with. Everyone makes mistakes. The man had more base hits than anybody. Most likely, his record will never be broken. He gambled on baseball. I get it. But one of the only pleasures I had growing up was listening to the rebroadcasts of the Big Red Machine on the radio--waiting for "Charlie Hustle" to beat out a bunt, steal second, slide into home, and give everything he had for the good of the team. There was no quit in him. All the kids at the orphanage idolized him, myself included. Sadly, his role model had been wasted on me.

The cold, hard truth was plain. Essentiality, I gave up on life and dropped out, merely existing, never making the effort to rise above my circumstances. Now, because of Noah, it appeared that I had a second chance to run the race. I didn't have a clue what was going to happen, or how it would all turn out, but I was going to give it my best shot. It seemed to me that life wasn't anything, if it wasn't a gamble.

I hadn't been to Sawyer Point Park since, well, back in 2000. The blues festival was held there. It was so crowded that I had a panic attack and had to leave early. Today, there would be no panic attacks, I told myself, as I lead my family through the park. I had a job to do, and I was going to do it.

"Hank, I like this place," Noah announced. "Why haven't we come here before?"

"I don't know, but it gets better. Wait until you see the Serpentine Wall. It's right on the river. We're going to sit on these huge steps and watch the boats go by."

"We better hurry, Hank, we don't want to miss any boats."

We followed the sidewalk to Yeatman's Cove and the giant steps. Hobo barked all the way. Twenty people, or so, in pairs of two, meandered through the plaza taking in the sights. A strong breeze whipped through the valley. The sun's rays made the river appear covered with a blanket of shimmering, white diamonds. Noah and Hobo took off for a closer look. Before they were satisfied, the better half of the musketeers had made their way to the water's edge. After coercing them back on the steps, we sat in silence and watched a tugboat pushing three unloaded barges up river.

I explained to Noah the difference between an adoptive and a biological parent, and how they both could love their children equally. I described the years that I yearned for someone to be a part of my life, and my grief because no one adopted me. Noah listened, but the sights distracted him. I felt the moment would never be right. According to Doc Herndon, the sooner I did, the better off Noah would be.

Noah stood up. A strong gust of wind lifted his hat up in the sky, like a feather, tossing it ten feet out into the water. He stumbled down to the bank, screaming. "My hat! We got to get my hat! Come on, Hank. I can't swim."

"Calm down, it's not the end of the world," I said, dreading the thought of getting in the water. Even in May the water would be chilly. Plus, this was the time of year I always got sick. "We'll buy you a new one," I said, attempting to calm Noah down. "We'll go shopping, it'll be fun."

"I don't want a new one, Hank. It's important. It's getting away!"

The current was pulling the derby farther out into the channel.

"I mean it," Noah cried. "I gotta keep that hat. Please, Hank. Do something!"

There was a wild look in Noah's eyes; he started waving his arms. The thought of him having an episode quickened the situation. I found a stick and broke it in pieces. I showed one to Hobo and gave it a toss. He leaped off the step, down on the rocks, and out into the water. Seconds later, Hobo reached the stick. I threw another over his head, like I'd done many times before. He dropped his stick and took off for the second one. The derby had a good lead, and I repeated the process two times in quick order.

"Look at him go. He's gonna do it, Hank. Get it, boy. You can do it! Go Hobo!"

Hobo saw the hat and was now after it on his own accord. He didn't need any more incentives. The current was strong this time of year; Hobo had never been out this far before. In the past, I always kept him near the shore. I couldn't believe the hat drifted so far out--and it was still going. My little dog was determined, but showings signs of struggle. I yelled, yet, he stayed focused on the mission. I knew we had a problem. Hobo wasn't a quitter. Even if Hobo reached the hat, I worried that he wouldn't have the strength to make it back to shore. I started screaming and throwing sticks behind him.

A large party yacht, maybe thirty-five foot, came cruising down river at a good clip. The vessel appeared at least a hundred yards away from Hobo, towards the Kentucky side. Still, I was beside myself. Noah started screaming.

"Hank! The boat. Look at the boat. The boat!"

The cruiser made a hard right, leaving a good-sized wake. I saw a young man at the helm, laughing, with the sun in his eyes and a beer in his hand. He opened the engines up, showing off for his friends. I tried everything to signal the boat, in vain.
It swamped Hobo and sped on.

The intoxicated man never saw my shaggy friend. I waited for Hobo to resurface; Noah stumbled down to the rocks in horror.

"Noah! Straighten up. We have to locate Hobo--you hear me! Keep your eyes peeled."

"I got my eyes peeled, Hank, hard as I can."

Noah's face went pale. He squinted, desperately searching for Hobo. I couldn't believe what I saw coming down the river: a tugboat pushing five barges. Noah and I waited, breathlessly, for Hobo to appear. We watched until the tugboat traversed the place Hobo went under. We didn't say a word and sat down on a step. We waited for over an hour without speaking. That day, only two people in the whole world knew the size of Hobo's heart.

The truth slapped me in the face: we were three expendable musketeers--a lost soul, an orphan, and a hobo dog. Three misfits. We didn't fit into the norms and mores of society. We were the kind of creatures that no one really saw. Now we were only two. I wanted to shout until my lungs exploded. I wanted to scream that we had feelings, like everyone else in this world. Nothing came out.

Noah put his head in my lap and wept. I searched for answers. Why hadn't I gone to Eden Park? Why did I come to the river? I knew why. The water was somehow connected to his past. I had hoped that it might prepare Noah for what I needed to tell him. My efforts were useless, futile, another error in judgment. I held Noah in my arms and wept with him. It was the lowest moment of my life. Telling Noah would have to wait, at least for a little while. I couldn't let him feel like a motherless child.

12

For a week Noah and I puttered around the apartment. Noah slept most of the day and read car magazines when he was awake. Of course, we didn't talk. Not even Tom Sawyer could brighten my spirits. Pizza night was nearing and Noah was anxious to see Julie. I told him that we had something very important to discuss and Julie would have to wait.

"I have something important to discuss with you," Noah said, with tears welling in his eyes. "I want you to know something. I would rather have Hobo back than that old hat. I wished he'd never tried to get that old hat. I was yelling for him to get it, Hank. He was trying to get it for me."

"Hush, it wasn't your fault."

"Hank, you think Hobo will ever forgive me?"

"Hobo loved you. He loved us. In his heart, he was doing what he thought he had to do. He was family. Sometimes, family members are forced to make difficult decisions. Remember the night I went to see Dr. Herndon?"

"I remember."

"It was about your test results. I should have told you then."

"Tell me now. I forgive you."

"A brain tumor is causing your headaches and might be the reason you can't remember things. You need a dangerous operation."

Noah was quiet for several minutes. He touched my hand. "You think I should get it?"

"I do."

"When they gonna do it, Hank?"

"Soon. Dr. Herndon said he'd call us. It's a chance for you to get better. It would stop the headaches, and maybe you will remember wonderful things--like the little boy flying his kite in the park. We're like brothers, Noah. The doctor said that the operation is very dangerous, and after, you'll need treatments."

Noah straightened his shoulders. "Maybe I shouldn't get it."

"Listen to me," I said, squeezing his hand. "The doctor said that you would die without it. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

"What should I do, Hank?"

"I think you should have the operation."

"Momma says everything happens for a reason. Do you think we can go see Momma before it happens?"

"You betcha. I have to do something important; you stay here and rest. OK?"

"Hank, I remember the day we watched the boy fly the triangle kite. You told me that you never felt good about yourself, because you never fit in. And I said that kind of stuff never bothered me. That wasn't true, Hank. It does bother me. I guess I was just trying to look like I wasn't afraid. But I was afraid . . . and I'm afraid now . . . Hank, it seems to me what's really important is what we think of each other. I like the sound of brothers. I'm proud to be your brother. If something should happen during the operation and I forget you're my brother, you'll remind me when I wake up, right Hank?"

"No matter what," I said "I'll find you just like you found me, don't you worry about that."

I went down to the coffee shop and called Julie Clemens. She promised to meet me within the half hour. I drank hot chocolate and considered the events that led to this point. It was too late to evaluate which decisions were right or wrong. I was certain of one immutable fact--I fell in love with Noah the first time I saw him. "Howdy," he had said. "My name is Noah. Momma gave it to me because she loves animals and wanted me to love animals." I realized that it only took one person to make you believe in yourself, and if the rest of the world couldn't look past Noah's scars, and problems, there was something wrong with the world. Of this, I was certain.

Julie came through the door. My expression dissolved her smile, and she waited for me to speak. I got right to the point.

"Do you know Detective Reggie Dean?"

"Reggie Dean?"

"If you lie to me, this conversation is over."

"He was my father's partner," she said, flipping her hair out of her eyes. "What's happened?

"He paid us a visit; he's investigating the murder of a Cincinnati detective. Would that be your father?"

"Hank, I told him not to bother Noah. Reggie believes the man he's looking for has amnesia."

"You mean the man you're looking for. You told Reggie Dean about Noah, didn't you? You've been trying to cure Noah so you can throw him in jail. And I thought you were different."

"It's not like it looks," Julie said. "Give me a chance to explain."

"Explain what? How you think the kindest person in the world is a murderer.
You're unbelievable!"

"Calm down. Please, listen to me. Consider this from my perspective. I'll never bother you again. I promise."

"You have until I finish my drink. I have a real friend waiting on me."

"I appreciate it," Julie said, hesitating, tucking her upper lip between her teeth. "When I was twelve, a serial killer beheaded my father; then placed his head across the room. Reggie Dean found my father looking back at his own mutilated body. His chest and arms were branded with obscenities, grotesque things I won't repeat. The killings stopped after that. Everyone gave up, but not Reggie. Reggie is famous for his hunches; he believes the killer has amnesia. The one person seen in the area that night was a large man with scars on his face.

"Thirteen years later," Julie continued, "I delivered pizza to a man who happened to be the right age and body type, had scars on his face, and appeared to have amnesia. Hank, if it had been your father, what would you have done?"

"Julie, you know what kind of person Noah is."

"I do, a tender soul that I adore. Noah didn't do it. But it's possible that the person Noah was before could have, or he knows something about it. I pray he didn't do it. I truly do. I know you don't have any reason to believe me, but I tried to keep Reggie out of it. I knew it was going to be difficult. My father was his mentor; he saved Reggie's life. I can tell you this--Reggie Dean will be there if Noah ever does remember. Honestly, the odds of Noah being involved, even as a witness, are a long shot. Still, what would you have done?"

Noah was a long shot in more ways than she knew, I thought, getting up from the table. "You might have tried being honest with me. I'm sorry about your father, and I hope you find the culprit that did it. It wasn't Noah. I'd appreciate it if you didn't bother us anymore."

"I understand," she said, fighting back a tear. "I'm sorry it turned out this way."

"Me too."

I stood there as Julie left the building. She didn't look back. Her story was compelling; I fought off several unwanted thoughts. A waitress approached me.

"You need anything else?"

"No thanks, I've had all I can take."

"Breaking up is hard to do, huh?"

I left without answering. I had a lot to accomplish and a short time to do it. Noah needed to know his real name. At least that's what Doc said. I was beginning to have doubts; a voice inside me kept asking why. Why did I need to turn Noah's world upside down before an operation that he might not recover from--because the hospital staff would be calling him John Silver? What purpose would it serve? Another voice supplied the answer: what if he had loved ones that could and should be with him?

ID: 1378539   (Rated: 13+) Someday Over Yonder--13,14,15  An unlikely turn of events. by Coolhand