Someday Over Yonder--16,17,18

16

Brazilian rosewood paneling and majestic ceiling-murals met me in the lobby of the Plaza. Allen Silver would feel more at home here than me. I had often sat across the street, at Fountain Square, watching travelers stroll in and out the Hilton Hotel, wondering where they were going and what it would be like to have a family and a future. Now, I knew how it felt to have a family, and this knowledge made the future more painful and uncertain than before. Having never known my father, I imagined Allen Silver's anticipation. He was nine-years old the last time he saw his daddy.

A tall, broad-shouldered man approached the check-in counter. He wore an expensive, double-breasted, light-tan suit and appeared to be the right age. I checked my watch: 7:30 p.m.

"I'm expecting Mr. Hank Maddox," he told the receiving clerk. "Send him to my room, straight away when he arrives. Can you arrange a car and a driver this evening?'

"Yes, Sir. How soon will you require them?"

"Shortly."

"Very good, Mr. Silver. Enjoy your stay."

I waited, giving him time to settle in and for me to collect myself. Ten minutes later, I knocked twice. He opened the door in his shirtsleeves. "Mr. Silver, I'm Hank Maddox," I said, offering my hand. He shook it; warmly embraced me.

"Call me Allen, please. Thank you for taking care of my father. Thank you so much. Come in, tell me all about him."

"He woke up this morning," I said. "As of now, he still doesn't remember who he really is, but he's having flashes from the past."

"Dr. Herndon told me this might happen. We have to be patient; the doctor explained it might take time for Dad to remember. Sit down, please. Would you like something to drink?"

"No thanks."

"Can I call you Hank?" I nodded of course.

"Hank, there's so much . . . Tell me. What kind of person is my father?"

"The man I know is strikingly tenderhearted. He possesses remarkable insight into human nature and is a lover of animals."

Allen Silver hesitated, the words catching in his throat. "For years . . . my investigators heard about him helping animals. My grandfather was a veterinarian. They both loved animals. Mom always joked that Dad loved critters more than her. Does he have a pet?"

"The dog is mine, but they're in love. It's extraordinary."

At this point, I rehearsed the entire story as clear and concise as possible. He interrupted only with positive affirmations. The longer the conversation continued, the more I liked Allen Silver. He was genuinely interested in Hobo and me. By the time I explained Elizabeth Wilders' involvement, Allen was also sympathetic toward her plight. Noah's possible connection to a murder investigation was the only subject that provoked any outrage. In the midst of this, the phone rang, confirming the car and driver had arrived.

"Let's go see my father."

"Remember, he'll be asleep until tomorrow."

"I understand," Allen said calmly. "You can ride with me."

"It's been a trying day; I should drive myself. I'm going home after this. Oh, by the way. Your father is also a great mechanic."

"Mom said he loved cars."

I smiled. "I'll meet you in the lobby. Doc Herndon thought I should talk to Noah, I mean John, before you see him tomorrow."

"Makes sense. Thanks, Hank. Thanks for everything."

The drive to the hospital gave me time to mentally chastise myself for prejudging Allen Silver. My preconceived notion was simply that. I felt terrible. The very transgression that I so often blamed on others, I recklessly heaped upon Noah's son without even giving him chance. I assumed because he was rich and successful, he would belittle how I handled Noah's affairs.

Allen arrived shortly after I did, carrying a small case, and we made the trek to the elevator. As the levels sped by--one, two, three--Allen hummed nervously.

"You're tall like Noah," I said, breaking the tension. "Is your mother tall?"

"No, a small woman with a big heart. She passed some time ago."

"I'm sorry," I said, as the elevator door opened. "Check in; they'll take you to him. I'll wait in the visitor's lounge."

Allen nodded and moved towards the desk. I thumbed through a Smithsonian magazine with ancient ruins on the cover, thinking Allen must feel like an archeologist entering a tomb filled with long lost treasure. What duration of time would be necessary to satisfy such an anticipated meeting? Even though Noah was asleep, I figured Allen had plenty to say. Not three or four minutes later, he came bolting out of the room with a stunned, puzzled expression. He stopped at the desk, didn't speak, and then continued in my direction.

"Hank," he sputtered, almost knocking over my chair," that's not my father! It's not him."

"Are you positive?" I said, not sure if my question was ridiculous or not.
"He's big, and has green eyes, but I'm telling you it's not him."

"You were only nine, Allen, just a kid. He's been indigent for years. He's older, and the scars. Time can change a person."

"No. I brought photographs." Allen sat down beside me, fumbling with the case. The first photo was his father's high-school graduation. The tall, green-eyed man had broad shoulders and would have been a perfect match, if not for his flat face and small nose. Noah's face was round, and his prominent snout would have suited Caesar. Allen handed me one his parent's wedding, then, one of them kissing in a photo-booth; next, a Polaroid of John Silver in his Class "A" uniform, and finally, the most recent: a snapshot of him holding a M-16 in Saigon.

I carefully examined the images, taking into consideration the gray hair, elongated facial scars, and the cruel passage of time. The close-up of the wedding picture was most telling: in addition to the nose, the shape of the ears and the line of his mouth were formed differently than Noah's. The chin set in instead of jutting out.

"It doesn't look like Noah," I said. Allen lost his composure, falling to his knees.

"I've waited so long," he cried, "so very long."

As he whimpered, I did my best to console him, rambling on about how proud his father would be of his efforts. He stood up and straightened his clothes and demeanor.

"You must be exhausted," he said. "Go home, Hank. I'm staying in Cincinnati a while, maybe Noah can remember where he found my father's dog tag."

"Allen, listen. I hope Noah can help you, but you can do something for Noah right now."

He looked at me with an odd expression. "How can I help?"

"If you tell the hospital that Noah isn't John Silver, they'll discharge him as soon as they can.

The dog tag saved his life. They were going to let Noah die. We don't have insurance or the means to pay. Please, carefully consider what you do next."

Allen touched his chin, and for a moment looked through me. The sensation was hauntingly familiar--like all the times I'd been at the mercy of prospective foster-parents making up their minds.

"He's not my father," Allen said flatly. "My father was an honorable man, who wouldn't want a hoax perpetrated in his name. It's not right; it's fraud. I'll inform the desk on my way out."

"Pl-e-ease . . ."

Allen held up his hand, cutting me off. "When the VA decides to discharge Noah, have him sent to the best hospital in town, I'll take care of the bills."

"I don't know what to say. Thank you."

"Your family deserves it," he said, with a brief hand-gesture. "I'll leave the photographs. Maybe they'll jog Noah's memory."

I watched Allen Silver stop at the desk, obviously setting the record straight. It would be several days before he saw Noah again. Allen returned to Memphis without any more information than he had before he arrived. Noah enjoyed the visit with his almost son and promised to try to remember anything that would help. A genuine affection formed between them. Allen took pictures of both Noah and Hobo, and offered his prayers before he left. I assured Allen that I would call if there were any developments.

The first development had nothing to do with Noah. I'd been replaced at work; nothing surprised me anymore. Know It All Harry figured this was a blessing in disguise, the world's way of telling me to get on with my life. I had to agree. I needed something that better suited my interests, which, if you'll remember, was my original intention.

Noah's condition improved daily. The doctors were surprised at his speedy recovery, but offered little explanation. In my heart, I knew it was Hobo.

In two short weeks, Noah was transferred to Christ Hospital, where he tolerated a regiment of chemotherapy and proved to be a model patient. He continued his treatments as an outpatient. The physicians at Christ explained that Noah could possibly live five years, maybe longer.

Noah decided on the name Wilder: Noah S. Wilder. It was his way to honor Elizabeth. On our first visit to Delhi Hills, we found the Ford Stepside parked in the driveway, courtesy of Allen Silver. He had also hired a nurse, who specialized in phobias, to check in every other week. But it didn't stop there. He negotiated a new rental agreement (with a large security deposit), which afforded Elizabeth the opportunity to have a pet, which of course paved the way for Hobo to visit. Allen Silvers' kindness overwhelmed me, and to this day his friendship remains one of the constants in my life.

The reunion with Elizabeth Wilder was heartwarming. Now that Elizabeth no longer believed Noah was in danger, her condition began to improve. She tolerated longer visits and began carrying treats in her apron for Hobo, who followed her around like a guard dog. It was comical to watch a tiny lady, a shaggy dog, and a huge man shuffle about the house going nowhere. Elizabeth also ended her quest to record all of Noah's past words. This adjustment period went smooth, like the inauguration of a new president. She presented Noah with a box full of conversations.

This still left the question of the dog tag. Initially, I thought it was a foregone conclusion that Noah was a veteran, if he was really admitted to Walter Reed. Moreover, the Veteran Administration failed to locate Noah in their database. If he wasn't John Silver, they had no idea who he was, leaving us with the logical conclusion: John Silver must have been admitted to the hospital, just like the letter to the Silver family indicated. Noah was simply another large, scar-faced man, who came across the dog tag in his travels. John Silver might still be wandering around the country. They both loved animals. Allen Silver's investigators wouldn't have known whom they were reporting on. The stories of the animal lover could've been about either man. How would they have known the difference?

After receiving this information, Allen Silver sent us all the paperwork his investigators acquired over the years: tips, sightings, interviews, reports, and analysis. He refused to give up. Noah was his best lead, the closest possibility to a real-life contact to his father. Allen frequently mailed us photographs, always with the same negative results. Noah had no idea who John Silver was.

17

Noah was changing, small things at first. How he dressed, food choices, altering his routine. He insisted on reading to himself at night and watching the History Channel instead of his regular cartoons. Each day he stayed longer in his adult mode, switching less and less to his child-like mode. The difference between these was minuscule and only noticeable to me; however, something more apparent was happening to Noah: a new interest in personal hygiene emerged, like he was going through adolescence.

Day labor was keeping the rent paid, but I was getting behind on Noah's court fines. This particular morning, I had an interview at a community newspaper. The position: press-operator trainee. It took Noah an hour to decide what to wear; I was almost late. After the interview, we stopped at Camp Washington Chili for lunch. Noah had developed a huge appetite for anything with chili on it.

"I love this chili," Noah said, emptying the last of a hot-sauce bottle. "I'm gonna need more."

I grabbed a bottle off an empty table. "Don't burn yourself, usually you don't like hot stuff."

Noah ignored the comment. "Well, what are your chances of getting the job?"

"The man was a little concerned with my employment history, all the switching around. He said they were looking for an individual who wanted to start a career, preferably someone just out of vocational school, but he would keep my application on file. I've heard that tune before."

"I ain't hearing no tunes, but I've been remembering things. Hank, I remember living in Florida."

"Florida?"

"Yeah. I lived in a camp with a bunch of people. We ate at a shelter everyday. They always made chili. I remember that. But it wasn't as good as this. There was a man that collected cans. His name was Pete. I helped him sometimes, but mostly, I helped Lulu save dogs and cats from bad people."

"You're sure it was Florida?"

"It was near Disney World."

"That's good. What did your friends call you?"

"My name was John Silver. But we know I ain't John Silver, right Hank?"

"You're definitely not John Silver. You found his dog tag somewhere, that's all. What else do you remember?"

"Let me finish this chili."

I watched him devour every morsel, including the last oyster cracker smothered with hot sauce. The last time Allen's investigators got wind of John Silver it was in Orlando, along the Orange Blossom Trail. At least on that occasion, it appeared they'd been mistakenly tracking Noah.

"Do you remember the dog tag?"

"I kept it with me all the time. I just can't remember where I found it. I've tried."

"Noah, you're doing good. Real good. We'll call Allen tonight."

"I hope it helps. He sure has been good to Momma and me. You think we should take Hobo back some chili? This is good Cincinnati chili."

I detected a slight accent that distinguishes a Cincinnatian. Noah pronounced the letter A more distinctively. Normally, he sounded like a New Yorker, with a hodgepodge of influences thrown in. I attributed this to the Wilders originally being from New Jersey, and Noah's vast travels.

"What if Hobo doesn't like chili?" I asked, wondering if it were my imagination. Was Noah's accent actually changing?

"I'll take care of it, Hank. Don't you worry about that, " he said, with emphasis on the A. "Come on. We better take at least one Three-Way home. If Hobo doesn't eat it, I'll save it for tomorrow's lunch."

"Sounds like you got a plan."

"What you gettin' at?" Noah said, trying to keep a straight face. While this conversation was developing, I had been watching a group loitering in the parking lot, a rough looking bunch. All at once, there was a scream, then another. The crowd scrambled, leaving a man lumped on the ground. A big fella fled towards the highway; I knew who he was. So did Noah.

"That's our big ol' neighbor!"

"That's him all right," I said, taking in the magnitude of the situation. The police arrived within minutes, followed by the life squad. The injured man's stab wounds were life threatening. Everyone in the restaurant was questioned, and I identified our gargantuan neighbor as one of those fleeing the scene. I didn't see him commit the crime, but Noah claimed they locked eyes for a split second. The violent ordeal adversely affected Noah right from the start. He was convinced that our not-so-jolly giant would now carry out his threats against Hobo.

Our neighbor didn't return home. Like a forest ranger scanning for fires, Noah kept a diligent lookout. He checked the block before taking Hobo outside and stopped all horseplay in the evenings, eliminating unnecessary barking sprees. Noah discarded any pretense of hiding his intentions. Even while struggling to understand his own dreams and visions, he kept his mind on the prize: Hobo's safety. I did my best to aid Noah in this regard, although, at times, his fears were exaggerated and requests demanding.

One afternoon, while I was job hunting, Noah's caseworker made one of her surprise visits. Noah refused to let her in the apartment. Miss Wallace brought along a student observer, a huge man with a full beard who resembled our missing neighbor. Infuriated by the incident, she attempted to violate Noah's probation. Fortunately, Doc Herndon smoothed over the situation with the cold-hearted bureaucrat. By threatening to file a complaint, he also persuaded Noah's obnoxious probation officer to dial down his abusive rhetoric. Doc became our closest ally.

It was the first time in my life that anyone advocated for my interests, unfamiliar territory. We told Doc about Noah's possible connection in the murder investigation. Doc began documenting a timeline, comparing Noah's memories to the records compiled by Allen Silver's investigators. As Noah's therapy evolved, Doc hoped to place Noah somewhere else at the time of the murder, eliminating him from the equation. It was during these sessions that Noah began fixating on Julie Clemens.

"I don't really care who I turn out to be, Hank, I just hope I didn't have anything to do with Julie's father."

"I'm sure you didn't."

"Anything's possible," Noah said. "No tellin' what kinda person I was before. What would happen if I did? Will you still love me?"

"I'm not sure what would happen, but, of course, I would love you. I will always love you. You have to stop fretting. It wouldn't have been you anyway. I know you understand that. Whoever you were, you're a different person now."

"I feel sorry for Julie. I don't blame her for wondering about me. Hank, you blame her, don't ya? That's why she doesn't come over anymore."

"I wish she would've been honest with us, that's all."

"She brought Hobo back, that means something. Right, Hank?"

"It does."

"It sure does," Noah asserted. "You better think on that."

"I've been a little busy worrying about you, and trying to find a job," I barked, regretting it immediately. "I will think about it, that's a promise." Noah's unique ability to separate himself from the equation, seeing strictly from someone else's point of view, was a gift I'd only read about in a book at the Laundromat.

"It's the right thing to do, Hank. Julie's in the same boat we are. She needs to find out things so she can get on with life, just like us. Don't ya see? I can't change who I was, or what might happen in the future. One thing is sure. I'm responsible for the choices I make right now--and so are you. That's what's important, right now. What's best for Julie is best for me. I know it down deep, Hank. I can't explain how I know, but it's the same way I know we were meant to be together. Just because I know it, doesn't mean I'm not afraid."

"No matter what happens, we'll go through it together," I said, amazed at the depth of his goodness. Noah's eyes drooped. Hobo yawned and stretched his legs, a sure sign it was naptime. "You guys rest, I need to drop off some resumes."

The mall was packed, kids everywhere. It looked more like an amusement park than a shopping center. I passed a music store, where a teenager was trying out a Stratocaster at full volume, and the clerk had her hands full. A week earlier, Guitar Slim and I were discussing my future, when he picked up his guitar (moving a glass tube on his pinky finger across the strings) and asked me this question: "If you were sent to a desert island and could only take one item with you, what would it be? I don't mean food and water and stuff like that, not Hobo or Noah either. I mean one material thing. You get what I'm saying? I'd have to have my guitar. What would you have to have?"

"It would certainly be a novel," I had told him without hesitation. It would take a little soul searching to decide which one, but it would definitely be a novel. The light bulb came on: Why not work in a bookstore? I walked right into an informational kiosk, which abruptly ended my daydream. After apologizing to the surprised attendant, he pointed to an adjacent store with best sellers all in a row.

A few minutes later, I was browsing the fiction section. Most of the lookers were middle-aged, or older, hunched at the shoulders and leaning against anything convenient. A young lady with an astute demeanor, who was plainly dressed (jean shorts and a white, cotton blouse), stood erect, quietly reading the back cover of The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter. She saw me starring.

"Do you know it?" she asked.

"Yes. Carson McCullers is a powerful writer."

"My friend told me about it, but she likes dismal and dreary things."

"The book is about loneliness and isolation," I admitted. "It enables us to better understand the importance of relationships."

"Do you work here?"

"No," I said, but wishing I did. "I'm looking for a job."

"My dad's been after me to get a job. I start to college in the fall, Xavier University. I wanted to goof off this summer. He's really been on my case and making life miserable."

"I'm sure he wants what's best for you. I never knew my father, you're fortunate."

She scrutinized my comments. "I hope you find what you're looking for, mister," she said politely, walking away and ending our conversation. I watched her purchase the book and glance back in my direction. Those few minutes felt right.

The job wasn't to be, however. The tune continued: no openings available at this present time--la de da de da--your application will be kept on file. Instead of feeling defeated, a sense of wonder overcame me, a thankfulness for being alive--like watching birds dine outside my apartment window, moving from one flower to the next, chirping, satisfied, unaware the ability to the change the past or control the future alluded them. Noah's words resonated in my heart like Slims' steel guitar: "That's what's important, right now."

18

A familiar knock brought Noah and Hobo bouncing out of the bedroom. I waited for Noah to open the door. You could‘ve heard his voice all the way at the corner bar.

"Julie! Julie's here! It's Julie!" Noah gazed wide-eyed, caught in a spell, like a mother seeing her newborn for the first time.

"It's getting cold. You going to invite me in or not?"

"How ya been Julie?"

"Doing a lot better now that you're OK. You gave everyone quite a scare."

"Didn't mean to do it," Noah said, grinning broadly, "just one of those things."

"Hank thought it was time to bring back pizza night, if that's all right with you?"

"Pepperoni?"

"Extra pepperoni."

"I missed you, Julie. There's no hard feelings is there?"

"Not on my part," she said, handing Noah the box. "I'm sorry I wasn't honest with you, a terrible mistake I wish I could take back. Can you forgive me?"

"I never held it against ya in the first place. If I had anything to do with your dad, it was another person, not me."

"I know that. I won't worry about it if you won't."

"You got a deal," Noah said, giving Julie a big hug and lifting her off the floor as easy as you please. I hadn't said a word, giving them time to work through whatever they needed. Hobo also kept his distance, sensing the importance of the reunion.

During supper, Noah filled Julie in on how he almost had a son. Julie didn't pry, satisfied with whatever Noah wanted to tell her. She seemed genuinely happy that Noah wasn't John Silver.

"I'm glad you're not moving to Memphis," she said, giving him a big wink.

"Me too. Allen woulda made a good son, but I already got a good family. Anyway, Allen will always be our friend. Ain't it right, Hank?"

"You betcha."

"He got a nurse for Momma, and the truck back."

"Sounds like a nice person," Julie said.

"He's some fella all right; I hope he finds his daddy."

Momentarily froze by the word daddy, Julie changed the subject. "How are your treatments coming?"

"Hank says there almost over with, and I haven't had any episodes since the operation. Looks like that tumor was the culprit--but Doc said I still may never remember who I was."

"I'm satisfied with who you are," Julie said.

"It's all right with me, too. I'm happy to be Noah S. Wilder. Tell her, Hobo." Hobo spun in circles, letting out his best happy bark. The door and window were open and two floor-fans hummed in unison. We laughed, told stories, and played 52-pickup. Noah enjoyed throwing the cards in the air and Hobo enjoyed picking them up.

We went for a walk and Know It All Harry supplied us with free fountain drinks on the back patio, even treated Hobo to a bowl full of cola. Guitar Slim came out and played us a song (which we didn't recognize but thoroughly enjoyed) and it was quite an evening. Noah chased Hobo around the courtyard, stopping at the picnic table for periodic updates on Julie's conversation.

"Hank, have you found a job yet?"

"Been working day labor," Noah answered for me.

"That's right," I cut in, "but I did have an epiphany, almost destroyed a mall kiosk in the process."

"Let's hear it."

"Ah, it's no big deal. Ya know how I enjoy reading?"

"Yeah."

"I figured why not work in a bookstore. I love books."

Julie's face brightened. "Do you know what my mother does?"

"You told me she owns her own business."

"She owns a bookstore!"

After Noah finished a twenty-minute spiel on how there's a reason for everything (his enthusiasm almost overtaking him), Julie promised to arrange an interview the following week, proclaiming to have considerable influence with the owner and practically guaranteeing me a position. The evening exceeded my expectations in every imaginable way. I felt alive, like the birds that dined outside my window.

Noah asked Julie to check on the investigation involving our neighbor, and we learned the following week that he was still at large. The net was tightening. The name on the rental application was an alias: Jack Jones. He went by Jackknife, Jacksaw, Jacktracker, and a slew of other monikers--totally off the grid. The local barflies described him as a scary character, which Know It All Harry and I could attest to. The police found nothing in his apartment connecting him to the stabbing, although, two days after the incident, a liquor-store owner furnished a security tape that matched the police sketch of the bearded giant. A jockey also reported seeing him at the racetrack a week later.

Julie recognized those angry, bitter eyes: the Creep in the coffee shop. If only she had followed her instincts. Julie was unable to shake the possibility that she might've looked into the eyes of her father's killer. If she would have turned the car around that rainy day, and followed him, maybe her nightmare would be over. The fact that he lived next door also haunted her. At first, Julie never mentioned it, but her frustration was obvious. She began to doubt her own observational skills and question if she had what it took to fulfill her dream of becoming a private investigator. More importantly, it seemed to me, was her false assumption that she failed her father. This went unspoken, for the most part, but hovered like the ever-present cloud of smoke at the corner bar. Detective Reggie Dean assured Julie that as soon as this character was apprehended, giving him a shave would be the first order of business.

After a short, casual interview, my career at the Clemens Family Bookstore was launched. Ramona's gracious welcome and interest in my success was more than I expected. A remarkable woman, she wasn't shy about her daughter's welfare, either, and openly shared her concerns about Julie's obsession--fearing it would be her undoing. Ramona apologized for her daughter's dishonestly, and revealed it was after Julie's request for my interview that the truth came out: she was back on her father's case.

"If not for this unusual turn of events," Ramona said, with a thankful expression, "almost certainly, Julie's involvement would have remained a secret. We've never seen eye to eye about how to move forward after her father's death. You're a good person for letting her back in your life; I imagine it was a difficult decision."

"Noah deserves the credit," I said, continuing to stock the new arrivals in the self-help section. "He would say it was all meant to be, God's plan. That's the way he explains everything."

Ramona responded even handedly, "He's not alone, by any stretch of the imagination. "Many people choose to see the world that way, although, more that a few change their minds after some terrible event disrupts their lives. Your Noah is an extraordinary individual, a compelling story by any measuring device. Soon as I can get a commitment from Julie, I want to have you over for dinner. And bring Hobo, please. I must meet the wonder dog."

"He'll be the life of the party, guaranteed. We'll be happy to come. Where do you want Carlos Castaneda's teachings of Don Juan, fiction or non-fiction?"

"If I'm not mistaken," she said, with an amusing glance, "the catalog says they're nonfiction. Where would you put them?"

"Have you read them?" I asked her.

"I read the first one, quite a tale."

"Sometimes I feel as if I'm Noah's apprentice, like Carlos Castaneda under Juan Matus. That probably sounds silly? But to answer your question, I would place them in both sections. The dual placement might stimulate interest, and it would also let the readers approach the writings in their own way."

She smiled. "You're absolutely perfect for this job, and no, it doesn't sound silly at all. After my husband was murdered, I learned that an open mind was my best friend. I received beneficial advice in the most unlikely places . . . I understand my daughter's mission; I only hope it doesn't dictate the rest of her life."

Having an interpersonal relationship with a grownup that respected my opinions was liberating; my life was growing and expanding. These encounters became commonplace. Not only with Ramona Clemens, but customers began to rely on my judgment and insight. I met kindred souls willing to discuss the rhyme and reasons behind an author's words, and often, these ruminations found there way into our personal lives. I discovered scores of people occluded by societal expectations; it was like looking in a mirror. An American Indian woman believed this condition was the result of "the evil-measuring eye", which determines our degree of conformity (or usefulness) and then limits our access accordingly.

I talked to a wide range of individuals with different backgrounds, ethnicity, and religious inclinations. It was as if the characters in my paperback novels had come to life, flesh and bone, including me in their stories. The opportunity to play a part in their mysterious journeys constantly presented itself. For me, these interactions functioned as a remedy, like the blues improvisers at the corner bar.

I shared these encounters with Noah and sought his advice on numerous occasions. He took particular interest in a widowed woman in the early stages of Alzheimer's. Janis was terrified of forgetting her children. She felt guilty for the mistakes that she had presumably inflicted during their childhood, and made constant preparation for the inevitable. She developed a complex system to stimulate her memory that involved certain foods, birthmarks, numbers, dates, and television programs. She recorded the system in a journal, and filled it with photographs ranging from her childhood on. Moved by her extraordinary effort, Noah wrote Janis this letter.

Greetings,

My name is Noah and I love animals. Momma says animal lovers are the best people. You don't know me. I'm Hank's friend. He told me what you're worried about. I've been thinking about it, ya know, slowly forgetting everyone you love. This happened to me in an instant, I guess it was an instant, I can't remember. Anyway, I didn't have time to plan for it.

No one knows who I was before, but I have people who love me now. There's Hank, you know him, and Momma, well, she ain't my biological momma, but she might as well be, and then there's Hobo, that's our special dog, and Julie Clemens, my third best friend. Doc even cares for me a great deal; I don't reckon he loves me like Hank and Hobo, but he's a good friend. I even have a friend in Memphis. He thought he was my son, but it wasn't so. Good fella.

What I'm trying to get at is this. When it happens, the people around you will know you. So when the time comes, you'll get the chance to learn them all over again, ya see? You might not know it's happening, but it will be. I figure this is a miracle, a chance for you to do it all over again, and for them to do likewise. There's a reason for everything.

You should write this down in your journal, so you'll remember--THE STRANGERS I WILL MEET ONE DAY ARE GOING TO LOVE ME. See what I mean, Janis? That's what matters; you'll be loved. I try not to worry so much about who I was. You're a good person, and I bet you'll be a good person after you forget who you were. I hope to make your acquaintance someday. Whether before or after, I bet we'll be friends.

Noah S. Wilder

ID: 1379029   (Rated: 13+) Someday Over Yonder--19, 20, 21, 22  The story comes full circle; the truth is revealed. by Coolhand

Hang in there. It's worth it. Thanks. Coolhand