CHAPTER 1
My earliest recollected vision is of a brooding row of hills set back from towering rocky cliffs barely visible through a fine morning mist. I can still feel the strong arms of my father about my waist as we stood on the pitching deck of the splendid four-master which was rocking at anchor in the cold wind. I must have been four or five years old at the time. But even at that age I was charged with the excitement that coursed through the ship's crew and passengers who bustled about in seeming disarray as we prepared to step ashore upon this great new land.
"Father," I yelled into his scraggly grey beard, "is this our new home then?"
"That it is, Andy boy, that it is." He squeezed me extra hard and set my feet back upon the deck. "Stay here now 'til I fetch you," he said, and disappeared into a knot of men.
I could smell the salt in the air, mixed with the sweet aroma of cargo from the holds below and the sweat of the sailors whose glistening skin popped with muscles as they cranked winches, hauled lines and manhandled sails that flapped over my head.
It seemed that our trip across the great gray expanse of water had taken months--so much had happened. We had embarked from one shore a tidy little packet of a family: Mother, Father, my older sister, Ella, and myself. We had been battered by storms, blighted by disease, weakened by lack of adequate food and water, and embarrassed by the terrible lack of privacy. The other passengers, simple peasants and farmers for the most part, became surly and unruly as our vessel churned its way through the roiling seas. The same travelers who had been filled with happy anticipation at our embarkation soon were transformed into a sullen clutch of brooding malcontents. Then, just a few weeks before landfall, my own family had been reduced to just two of us. Mums and sister had gone to live with the angels, victims, I later learned, of a smallpox outbreak that spread throughout the ship. Although I recall feeling no discernible grief over their loss, my father would say many times later that it was a terrible price to pay for the privilege of traveling to this crude land of savages, opportunity, and freedom. And even as we felt the English dock under our feet, my father scratched his head at the sight of so many other ships--these setting sail toward the land from which we had just come, America.
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That I was carried so far in my father's well-intended search for freedom makes my present circumstances all the more pitiful. My government-issue hospital room is barely large enough to contain a narrow bed, miniscule washbasin, and a toilet that gurgles constantly and makes sleep impossible. Overhead there is a ceiling fixture covered with a heavy guage steel grate protecting one lonely light (bulb theft must be a real problem around here) which throws a weak glow that would be easily outshown by a sickly firefly's behind. But my guardians have not overlooked my need for mental stimulation and challenge. On the wall over my head, almost out of the reach of anyone but Magic Johnson, is a pathetic little bookshelf held fast to the concrete wall by solid inch-thick steel studs. Perched upon this lofty library of advanced learning is one copy of the Reader's Digest version of The Holy Bible, an old novel by Grace Metalious, a Treasury of Golf Tips, and a Betty Crocker Dessert Cookbook.
After almost sixty days in a place like this you get a bit stir crazy. Maybe that's why I've started thinking about Allison again.
Would it be uncharitable of me to blame my latest turn of luck on Allison? Yes, I suppose it would. After all, that sweet, sweet button of a girl, with her tinkling laugh and bent sense of humor, is unquestionably the high point of my existance. The best among many.
And now that I've had plenty of time to meditate, I realize that I have been taking her terribly for granted for a long time now. In fact, have I ever really pay her her just due--told her explicitly and sincerely how I felt about her? That I even love her? That I would walk over hot coals in cheap sandals for her? How I truly miss her and how I am remorseful with guilt over how I have mistreated our fragile relationship? Even now, with the reek of the toilet assailing my nostrils, I can still see her, looming vividly in my mind's eye as she was on that day when we first met.
She was dressed in white with a little cap perched on her head, setting off a shiny thicket of blonde hair which fell to the top of her starched uniform collar. She was raising the window shade and looking at me with the palest blue eyes--saucy, impertinent eyes that reminded me of a ravishing vixen whom I had once romanced centuries ago in Barcelona. But that lass, now a wisp of dust in a long-abandoned hillside graveyard, paled in comparison to this young lady, whose perfectly pert nose wriggled and twitched, bunny-like, as if smelling dew-moistened lettuce in the air. She wrinkled her brow in thought, an endearing action that focused my attention on her high, wide cheekbones, set off by a fair and rosy complexion that radiated bountiful good health.
"Is this too much light for you, Mister Merriman?"
I pulled raised myself up, squinting a bit to indicate mild discomfort.
"I can lower it a bit if you like."
"No, that's fine," I said, ever stalwart.
She stood with her back to the window, studying me intently. And, judging by the furrow on her brow and the slight shake of her head, she obviously wasn't too displeased with what she saw: A not unhandsome broad-shouldered youth. Almost twentyish, perhaps. Tousled mahogany mop of hair. Ruddy open face split by an honest well-used grin. Straight nose, wide-set intelligent brown eyes pleasantly distanced from each other. Strong cleft chin dotted with embarrassing adolescent stubble. Indeed, I'm sure I appeared to be so young, vital and nourished that she probably figured I didn't require any serious nursing.
She moved to my bedside, put a thermometer in my mouth and grasped my wrist. The touch of her hand felt deliciously cool and I looked up at the curve of her throat and her barely dimpled chin as she studied the moving second hand of her watch. Abruptly, she released my wrist and removed the slender glass tube from my mouth.
"Hmmmm."
"What is it?"
"No big deal," she said, placing the thermometer in a bedside tray. She moved toward the door, my alert eyes following the movements of her tidy little rear.
"Where's my regular nurse?" I inquired, recalling the image of the stout matron into whose muscular hands I had been first entrusted.
"Miss Lurch has been transferred to another floor. I'm taking her place." The door swung closed behind her as my heart soared. Perhaps my remaining time in that hallowed health care institution could be borne after all.
This particular hospital sojourn had begun four days before when my unconscious form was wheeled into the emergency room aboard a litter carried by two rushing ambulance drivers. They had scooped me off 5th Avenue a few minutes after a taxi, carrying an imprint of my body on its grillwork, had disappeared in traffic.
I had lain unconscious for two days before my eyes popped open in the Intensive Care Ward of Bethany Hospital, an aging pile of stained red bricks on the fringe of Manhattan. I felt bruised and battered but a babbling team of interns from various third world countries informed me that, aside from a few simple fractures, I had not been too ill-treated by the fleeing taxi. Indeed, they were amazed at my recuperative powers, which prompted them to remove me from the critical list and expedite my transfer to a regular bed on the medical floor.
"You one tough cookie, you better believe," said a young mahogany-skinned doctor.
If he only knew.
My run-in with the errant taxi certainly wasn't the first time I'd been in harm's way and survived. In fact, my memory of my very first confrontation with the hooded specter and his long-handled scythe still stands out in my mind. You see, it was also the very first time I began to suspect that maybe I was a different than other people on this planet.
It happened on a blazing summer day in the year 1675. The sun burned a hellish hot hole through the blue sky, blistering the countryside around the little settlement of Caesaro, nestled on the Arno River in Central Italy a few days oxen ride from Florence. I remember it was early afternoon. Swirls of dust filled the air, burning my eyes. Oblivious of the heat, I was about my daily business, scouring the narrow streets of our village, collecting rich chunks of dung. Despite my father's work as a bootmaker, we were dirt poor. As a result, we were sure to freeze in the coming winter unless I spent the hot summer days gathering dung for the fires that would keep the chill from the miserable hut we called home.
So I persevered, knowing that I was helping my father, and ignored the taunts of idle village children who hurled epithets as I marched past through the streets, dragging my stinking sack behind me. I smouldered inside. And except for the fact that I was a small and frail eight-year old, I would have not taken their insults with such passive resignation.
"Hey-ho, dung-head," squeaked a ragged urchin. "Wash your hands before you eat your gruel," chanted a slovenly quartet of rough-housing oafs. "Here's a piece of foulness you missed," cried a huge slow-witted girl, setting down a load of wash to toss a brownish clod in my direction. I was not too proud to pick up the dung which ricocheted off my thin brown body.
I ignored the noisy riff-raff, looking neither right or left. And despite my brave silent front, I longed for an end to this daily persecution--and for the day when I could leave the squalid village.
You would think that I would have become accustomed to such adversity. For in truth, I had known few happy moments since my father and I arrived in the community--the latest in a string of villages where we had stayed briefly and then, for one reason or another, soon left. It was a pattern that had continued ever since we had arrived in England three years before. We had traveled farther south, seeking a home of permanence.
And so it was that, deep in thought, head bowed and ears closed, preoccupied with my musings, I failed to take notice of an immediate threat to my routine. A dark band of low clouds had moved in from the north, obscuring the sun and wetting the baked-clay streets with a sudden downpour. The rain increased in intensity and I heard rolling claps of thunder, interspersed with vivid, intense bursts of lightning.
Jolted out of my reveries, I quickly sought a place of shelter. But I was too late. From around a shack twenty meters distant, a rough snorting echoed briefly, followed by a shower of splattering mud thrown up by the hoofs of a huge charging bull, which apparently had torn loose from its tether in a nearby field. I raised my head just in time to see two blazing red eyes, foaming, slobbery lips, and an enormous fuzzy brown and white head, wider than my outstretched arms, charging down upon me. I felt a tremendous blow which simultaneously emptied my stomach and my bowels and, I learned later, flung my body high into the air where it fell to the ground in a broken, bloody heap. It was at this moment that fate stepped in. A terrible crackling rent the air, my body glowed incandescent as a jagged bolt from the sky coursed through me, filling my nostrils with the smell of burning flesh.
I awoke sometime later. Dimly, I could hear the sound of hymns. I squinted into the light of flickering candles and took in the flowered scent of incense. Low moans and anguished weeping flooded into my ears. I tried to grasp the meaning of this. Failing to find enlightenment, I groaned loudly, an act which was met by answering screams and exclamations in many pitches. Then I sighed and lapsed back into unconsciousness.
Some time later I awakened. My father and the village priest were bending over me. Tears flooded from their eyes. Rosaries were clutched in their fists.
"A joyous miracle," said the holy man. My father nodded in weepy silence.
"To survive two demons--the scorn of the bull and anger of the sky--is no small thing," the priest added.
In a matter of weeks, I had regained my strength and my body bore no signs of its tribulations. Of course, it was not lost on me that instead of resuming my life, I really should have been comfortably esconced in a wooden box under the clover in the shabby little cemetary a few leagues from the village. I felt no outpouring of gratitude, but I was absolutely certain that I must be destined for great things, otherwise God would not have spared me. Such is the arrogance of youth.
For the rest of our stay in Caesaro, I suffered no furthur insults from young villagers as I went about my daily dung collections. Instead, the riff-raff stood back respectfully, allowing me to collect my street treasure unmolested. I also lost my desire for revenge upon these poor souls. This was not due to any charitable feelings on my part but, rather, the practical realization that any vengeful efforts of mine would pale besides the terrible life-long torments already being meted out by Dame Fate upon these pitiful, ragged antagonists.
Eventually, a group of priests was dispatched from Rome to question me about my experience. I answered their questions as forthrightly as I could but they shuffled back to their marbeled halls, hardly the richer for my observations. At odd times since my meeting with the bull and subsequent recovery, I would find my father studying me with a look of great wonderment in his eyes. He also began saying daily novenas in the tiny chapel near the edge of town, a habit he maintained for the remainder of our time in that depressing little hamlet.
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"My name is Allison MacKenzie," she said, setting the tray on the table in front of me. "And your dinner's getting cold."
I gingerly removed the stainless steel rim to examine the steaming delectables hidden beneath.
"Ah, I can hardly contain my excitement," I cried. "I've been hoping against hope that we'd have these little dented frozen peas again tonight. How wonderful. And just feel this piece of bread. I like it crisp and hard like this--so good for the teeth."
"I'll take it away if you don't want it, Little Mister Smartpants," she said, reaching out for the tray.
"No," I said. "I was just kidding. This is a blessing, really. Imagine, all of this for just 375 dollars a day." I began eating with great gusto.
She frowned and busied herself about the bed.
"When am I going home?" I asked between bites.
"I haven't heard," she said. "Doctor's supposed to make up his mind tomorrow."
"Can't be soon enough for me," I said.
"That goes two ways."
I looked up. She was smiling. "We've treated you all that badly then?"
"No," I said. "It isn't that. It's just that I have a living to make--and I can't do that while medical science is experimenting on me here."
"What do you do?"
"I'm a musician."
"What kind of musician?"
"Hopeless Life."
"Why do you do it if it makes you feel bad?"
"That's the band I play with. Hopeless Life."
"Seriously? Why have I never heard of it?"
Arrogant nerd. "We're not exactly a household name yet. That takes time."
"Sounds like fun," she said. She brushed a loose strand of hair from her eyes. "I played piano once. Classical mostly."
"Why did you stop?"
"I wasn't very good at it, that's all. Seemed like a waste of time. And my father used to get stomach cramps when I'd practice."
"What do you play?"
"Guitar. Lead guitar, actually. I've gotten pretty good at it."
"Is that all?"
"Oh, I used to play a flute, some mandolin and violin. But that was a long time ago. A very long time ago, in fact."
She laughed. "You're not old enough to have done anything a very long time ago."
If she only knew.
"Has your band ever made a record?"
"Not yet. But we've got a great sound so it shouldn't be too long before we hit the big time."
"I'd like to hear you some time. Where do you play?"
"In Jersey," I said. "Place called Toddies." My God, she was an angel of beauty when she smiled.
"I used to live in Jersey," she said. "I moved a couple a months ago to be closer to the hospital. Got to be a real pain getting to work every morning."
"What days do you work?" I asked, angling for what I knew not.
"Monday through Friday twice a month, then Tuesday through Sunday the other two weeks. Nights mostly."
"Not much time for social action then?"
"I don't date patients."
"There's a first time for everything."
"Especially I don't date patients who think they're Darwin's
gift to the species."
"Go out with me and maybe I'll show you my guitar."
"God, you think you're hot stuff. Positively molten."
"Well, you can't blame a guy for trying, huh?"
"I can and I do."
She removed the tray from the table and left the room. Mouthy little wretch, that's for sure. I lay back on the bed, imagining how delicious it would be to humble this independent little Miss Nightingale.
Shortly before lights out she returned to the room and approached my bed, lips pursed and frowning in thought.
"Hey, Andrew," she said. "You're getting to be a real mystery man. What's with you, anyway?"
"How do you mean?"
"I overheard a little scuttlebutt in the smoking lounge. Seems the doctors are a bit puzzled by you."
"How so?"
"Oh, some of the things that turned up in your initial exams, plus a few things that have developed since."
"Such as?"
"Oh, something about your dental work. Seems you've got some stuff in your mouth that's really outrageous."
"Oh?"
"Like a bridge one doctor claims hasn't been made since the turn of the century. In Russia of all places."
"Oh that," I laughed heartily. "I've been asked about that before."
"Another thing. You've got some kind of a brass pin in your femur that apparently was implanted by a technique that's straight out of ancient medical text books."
"Oh yes, that's right." I slapped my knee vigorously.
"What's so funny?"
I made a supreme effort to rein in my giddiness.
"Oh, I'm sorry," I said. "It's just that this has come up a couple of times in the past that's all--and the answers are awfully simple."
"Well, what are they?"
Here it comes again, I thought. God, I get so sick of plugging the dike with lies.
"Well, take the teeth," I said. "A while back, I think I was about twelve or thirteen or so, my folks took me to this old dentist. He was a Russian, and he still performed work like they did in the old country. He was really quite good at it." My chuckle had a hollow ring. "He said that modern dentistry left a lot to be desired. Wow, did it hurt. I do remember that. So much for the mystery, huh?"
I rubbed my jaw in memory.
"But this doctor says that even in Russia, they haven't done dentistry like that for over a hundred years."
"That may be true in the larger soviet cities," I said. "But out in the hinterlands, they're years behind the times."
"What about that work on your leg?"
"Same deal."
"Same deal," she repeated, sucking in her cheeks slightly. "You're not a teenage KGB agent then?"
"I'm not a teenager," I said. "Or anybody's agent for that matter."
"How old are you, anyway?"
I thought a moment--I didn't want to make a critical error.
"I'll be twenty on my next birthday."
"Then you're still a teenager."
She grimaced with triumph and left the room.
The next time I talked to her was about two weeks later, several days after I had been declared fit as a Samurai and was discharged from the hospital. I called her at her apartment one night.
"How did you get my phone number?"
"It's in the phone book, remember?"
"Well, I told you before, I don't go out with patients. Ex or otherwise."
"Well, ordinarily, I don't date nurses. But I'm willing to make an exception this time if you are."
I picked her up in a cab and we went to Fong's for some Chinese.
It was the first time I had seen Allison in something other than a white uniform. She was stunning. Blonde locks splashing over a thick pink sweater, carefully faded blue jeans and white running shoes. Freshly minted American womanhood--ready to be put into a display case. My display case.
"I'm sorry if I seem a little pushy," I said. "I just act that way some times." I sat back to see what effects could be reaped by this earnest display of humility.
"I take it you're not acting the part of an arrogant ass all of the time." She smiled sweetly. "Why don't you just back off a little and stop acting like God's great gift to poor people."
"Am I that bad?" I said.
"Listen, Merriman..."
"Call me Andrew."
"Andrew. You are that bad. You've been acting that way ever since I first talked to you in the hospital."
"I'm sorry then."
"Don't say you're sorry if you're not."
"What should I say then?"
"Don't say anything. Just, maybe quietly resolve to lower your guard a bit. Maybe knock it off with those fast comebacks. You act like you're a standup comedian or something."
"A strange thing happened to me on the way to the club tonight," I said.
She rolled her eyes heavenward. Maybe I'd have to tone down my approach.
A wizened little waiter appeared at our booth, took our orders and left.
"Enough of this gratuitous talk about me and my accomplishments," I said. "Let's talk about you."
She tapped her fingers on the countertop. "Are we through talking about you, then?"
"I certainly hope so," I said. "Over-dosed any unsuspecting patients lately?"
"Ha, Ha," she said. "Not funny. Anyway, I've decided to quit my job. I've been thinking about it for quite a while now."
"What are you going to do?"
"That's my problem. I don't know what I want to do. I'm 19 years old and I just haven't found myself. My Aunt Mary died last year and left me a small hunk of money. I think I'll use it to travel around a bit. Maybe pick up a few ideas."
The food arrived and we fell to eating silently. Just my luck. The first decent girl I've come across over a hundred years and she's decided to leave town.
"What's the matter?" she asked. "You look like your shoes are too tight."
"It's just that you're the first really swell girl I've come across in quite a while--and now you're taking off for parts unknown."
"Really swell, huh? You talk like a museum. Anyway, don't take it so hard, After all, we've only known each other for a total of, say about two hours."
"I get attached to people fast," I said. "A bad habit of mine."
"Well, don't get despondent on me," she said. "I couldn't handle the guilt."
"You gave me excellent care when I needed you."
"I'm a nurse. They pay me to do that."
After we ate we wandered up the avenue, bound for no particular destination, just people-watching and enjoying the cool Autumn air. Then we caught a cab back to her apartment where I set about getting an invitation to accompany her inside.
"Thanks for chow mein," she said. "I'm going to have a Rolaids and hit the sack."
"Alone?"
"Alone," she said, shutting the door in my face.
"I'll call you some time," I said to the thick slab of oak.
I remember returning to my apartment across town, the image of this marvelous, snooty maiden imprinted in my mind.
How could have I known that those simple times with Allison would constitute the last uncomplicated days of my life?
-----------------
The complications came thick and fast. One fine bright morning I was cleaning spilled beer off my Fender guitar, thinking New Age thoughts, and basking in a soft ray of morning sun shining through my apartment window. A sharp knocking roused me from my rapture.
I opened the door to see two men who looked like models from a Brooks Brothers ad. Grey pin-striped vested suits. Red silk ties. White button-down shirts. Tassled loafers. Jehovah's Witnesses, perhaps? I was immediately put on the alert when the one mannikin shoved his foot forward to prevent me closing the door.
"My name is Peters," he said. "We'd like to come in and talk to you for a few minutes."
"Sure, come on in," I said, feeling a fine sweat breaking out over my skin. They entered and I motioned them into a couple of chairs. "How can I help you?"
"I'm Fred Peters, Bureau of Immigration, and this is Reginald Hoskins, representing the United States Treasury Department. We'd like some information, if you don't mind."
"No, I don't mind." My body chemistry began preparing for immediate flight, unloading several cc's of adrenalin from my pancreas and preparing to dump it into my bloodstream.
"What is your date and place of birth?" Peters smiled at me beguilingly.
"Hmmm," I said thoughtfully. "That information isn't too easy to come by."
"How's that?"
"Well, the hospital and the orphanage I grew up in both burned to the ground. It was lightening, I think."
"Where and when did this occur?"
"Oh, let's see," I said, scratching my head. "In Smithville, Arkansas. Summer of '69."
Hoskins stroked his chin. "That's a bit of a coincidence, isn't it? Both the hospital and the orphanage burning down like that." He glanced at his partner, as if inviting him to share in this revelation.
I shrugged my shoulders. "I don't know. I never really thought about it. Why, do you think I committed arson when I was a baby?"
"Of course not," said Peters. "It just would make it awfully tough to track your background."
"Why on earth would you want to do a thing like that?"
"Oh," Peters said with studied nonchalance. "No particular reason. It's just that a few things have come to our attention and we've been asked to clear up some loose ends."
"How loose?"
"Well, according to our records, there are no documents available concerning your family members."
"I have no brothers or sisters."
"But there are no records of your parents, either. No birth records, school records, bank records, employment records. Nothing. We also have no records relating to your past. Employment, tax, school--you name it--you're a complete blank, as if you never existed." Peters looked at me expectantly.
"So?"
"So, it just makes us curious, that's all." The men nodded their head in unison.
"And I take it then that I've broken several laws by not having a background that's conveniently available."
"Let's just say that you're an enigma of sorts. And it's our responsibility in the interest of security to make certain that nothing all of our citizens are properly accounted for."
"That's baloney. Whose security are we talking about anyway?"
"Call it what you like, Merriman. But it's a fact that we want to find out some things about you, with your help--or without."
"May I ask what's triggered this intense interest?"
"Sure you can ask. For one thing, you're a wage earner, are you not?"
"Yes, I am."
"There are no records, state or federal, that indicate that you've ever payed any income tax."
"But that's not correct. I am a stickler about paying taxes. I just use my stage name."
"And that is...?"
"Rod Stewart."
Both men began scribbling furiously. Then Hoskins raised the point of his pencil to his pursed lips.
"You were recently hospitalized?"
"That's correct."
"After you were discharged a hospital staff member contacted the local office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Seems the doctors found a few oddities about your case, or, I should say, about you. Thought you might be a Russian spy. A member of a special Russkie youth squad, actually."
I shook my head in disbelief.
"Are you?"
"Am I what?"
"A Russian agent?" Both men leaned forward.
This had gone far enough. "Yes, I am," I said. "I'm part of an elite strike force sent to this country to ferret out information regarding the fabrication and manufacture of Barbie Dolls."
Peters jumped to his feet and shook a finger at me. "Don't get smart with us, kid."
I got up and walked to the door, opening it wide. "Why don't you and your partner vacate the premises. I know my rights--and I don't have to put up with this cops and robbers crap any longer."
Then men got up and moved slowly toward the door, puffing their chests out and straining the buttons on their wool vests.
"Can we assume we do not have your cooperation then?"
"Assume anything you want to, but this I don't have anything to say to you guys. Spy, my rear end. You guys are hallucinating. Now get out of here before I call the cops."
"Don't think this is the end of this," Peters said as they walked out into the hall. "What ever it is you're up to, we'll find out one way or another."
"Give my very best to the spy who came in from the cold, will you?" I said, slamming the door.
"You'll be hearing from us, Merriman--maybe a lot sooner than you think."
So there was one incredible, inane complication. My first instinct was to clear out of town and start up a new life elsewhere. But instead I calmed myself and resolved to forget the episode. Which only proves that sometimes it pays to respect your instincts.
------------------
Two weeks later, I was treating Allison to a burger. The talk was a bit on the tense side.
"But what in the world could they want?" she asked. "They acted like you were some kind of criminal or something."
"I tell you, I don't know," I said. One of your doctor pals at the hospital shot off his mouth or something, the feds did some checking, and they're apparently still at it."
"But they said that they had tried to interview you and that you were being uncooperative."
"My buns."
"But why don't you just tell them what it is they want to know? You don't have anything to hide."
I smiled weakly.
"But come to thing of it," she went on, "I really don't know anything about you. I mean, we've been out a dozen times, and I don't know much except that, A, you play rock guitar for a living. B, you're as cheap as they come. And C, you think you're the greatest thing to happen to girls since padded bras."
"What else is there to know except that I'm a terrific guy?"
She made a face as if she was going to be sick. But how on earth could I tell her anything substantial about myself--without spinning another ugly web of lies? I was sick and tired of lying to people. Especially her, since she had been open and candid about her own private life.
When she relaxed and talked about herself, her tone changed and her personality softened. Her eyes brightened with reflection and she scrunched up her face as she tried to sort out the past. Then words came faster and faster as she talked excitedly about her future in a rushing torrent of expectation.
She sat with both elbows propped up on the table, her chin cradled in her linked hands, those big beautiful eyes never wavering from my face.
She had been born in Kalamazoo, Michigan, the only daughter of a mother who never set foot out of the kitchen and a father who spent most of his waking hours with his face buried in the sports section.
"Oh, my parents were nice enough," she said. "But somehow, I never really felt connected with them." She reddened slightly. "Sounds horrible, doesn't it? Maybe I'm not being fair to them when I talk like that."
"No," I said. "I can see what you mean. You can have people close to you all the time and still feel kind of, you know, apart."
She nodded. "They're your parents and you love them--but there's kind of a detachment, somehow. Course, I even felt that way about my most of my friends, too. So I guess maybe if there's a fault to be found, I have to share it." She smiled grimly, as if facing up to bad news.
"I've been there," I said. If she only knew how much--and how long--I had been there.
After high school graduation, she left home with a girl friend, Emmy Lou Anderson, climbing aboard a Greyhound bus that dropped her off a day later in New York City. Emily Lou lasted one month before she fled the city and returned to Kalamazoo.
Allison stuck it out, attending nursing school on tuition money sent by her parents. Three years later, she got her first job at Bethany Hospital. It wasn't long before the nursing life started to pale--and the money left to her by her aunt was the escape hatch she needed to start a new life somewhere where there were no bedpans, doctors or sick people.
During all of this time, her life had been virtually bereft of companionship--outside of a brief temptation with an instructor at nursing school--and she chalked this up to her odd hospital hours. But she didn't dwell on this void and observed that "there is plenty of time for that and besides, when it happens, it happens."
It was clearly up to me to show her that she had finally met the man who could light a raging fire in her veins.
"Just your typical girl-grows-up type story," she told me. I thought I saw a certain wistfulness in her eyes.
My gaze drifted over her shoulder to a figure sitting in the shadows of a corner booth. There was something familiar about him but I couldn't place it. My concentration wavered as we talked. My eyes returning to the corner booth. Where had I seen that face before? The man was in his mid-fities, ebony hair, elegant high-boned face, bottomless eyes that pierced and probed like the cherry tip of a hot poker. Looking for all the world like a knight of regal bearing, except for the casual sweater-and-slacks combo he was wearing. Where, oh where, have I seen you before? The question eluded me.
Then, as if the sheer intensity of my thoughts had burrowed into his brain, the man's attention shifted from the view through the window of the crowded street and he turned to look about the restaurant. His eyes tracked the motley crowd of burger eaters, then came to rest on mine. And then I knew. The realization struck me with mighty force, a jarring, blinding bolt of recognition that flooded my senses, sent a cold chill down my spine and weakened my bowels.
"My God," Allison said, looking behind her then back at me, "what's the matter with you? You look like you're going to throw up."
My mind froze and I could not answer. Instead, I got up and headed for the door, my thought processes in a tumult of confusion. I had to get out of that place. In my haste to get up I knocked over our table, spilling Cokes and stray french fries to the floor.
That face. It was impossible. Maybe it was just someone who resembled him. No, that would be too easy. But it simply could not be. But as I rushed out of the restaurant, oblivious of the stares of customers whom I rudely brushed aside, I knew in my heart of hearts the awful truth. The man in the corner was exactly whom I feared him to be. Of course it had been many years since I had seen him. And therefore I became aware of two startling and awful facts:
First, I was not alone in my penchant for longevity. There was another who was as I was.
And second, that he had steadfastly tracked me down through the milky mists of time for over 200 years was frightening evidence that a heart bursting with rage and hate can surmount any barrier in order to quench its thirst for bloody vengeance.