Immortal Blind - the immortal part
copyright 2013 by Peter Holmquist
CHAPTER ONE
I am not sure how it happened. I may have been born with this condition, but it did cause me to be thrown out with every bath that I ever was given. I can't remember the first time it happened, but I remember flashes from the next forty or fifty times. Colorless walls, children surrounding me, first in cribs, nurses carrying them away, then walking them away from me. There was nothing those nurses could do to make me feel comforted, so I was transferred over and over again after some longer than acceptable time. That's how my condition was overlooked. No one believed I could have been there that long. No one came for me then either. I remained an orphan.
“Craig, shut up!” I shouted.
“Make me, doofus!” he replied, stepping closer.
I looked up at him and saw his flaring nostrils and squinted eyes looking down on me. I couldn't give in, so I punched him in the side of his stomach.
“You are a worse fighter than you are a student, stupid prick!” Craig answered. Then he punched me so hard in the chest that he knocked the breath out of me. I fell down trying to get a breath.
That's when Craig kicked me in the ribs. I don't know if any broke, but I couldn't scream, because I couldn't get a breath yet.
Then he kicked me again, a couple of times.
I think I blacked out. All I can remember is feeling angry and hurt in the next time from then in my memory, that and the fact I am pretty sure Craig didn't even know what the word “prick” meant.
Suzanne was much taller than me, with flaming red hair. Her family lived around the corner from the group home where I lived for a while. She beat me up when I was around eight years old. I was coming back to the house when she stopped me with her friends to make fun of me. She seemed six feet tall to my four and a half. She was lanky and was wearing a striped maroon and yellow and green polo shirt and some kind of long khaki shorts that were popular then. She grabbed my short hair and punched me in the face. Then her friends laughed and walked away.
I was about 10 when I won my first fight. You would have thought I could have gotten much better sooner, from the number of beatings I had taken. I was small though, and there is only so much that experience can make up for. Without martial arts training that is. I had wished for a bit of that. That didn't come until much later though. Steve Thompson was about my height, but he was heavy. He was a little bad boy from the other side of town. He rode the bus to the school we both attended. We were waiting for the bus when he pushed me. I had heard he might try to start something, so I was ready. I didn't make a big deal out of it, I tagged him once on the chin. His chin began to swell until his head started to look oblong. He even had friends in sixth and seventh grade, but they left me alone until I moved from there too.
I was at a gray clapboard group home in the Green Lake area of Seattle, Portland in a commercial building turned into a shelter for kids and women in the Mississippi Avenue area, in a partially brick and white clapboard bungalow in Sacramento near 'Poverty Ridge.' I bounced around the Bay Area. I got to San Antonio on the Greyhound after an interminable ride from Albuquerque. I lasted there only a week before moving up to crash in an apartment Kansas City. I only got into a few fights after leaving the 415/510 area codes. I count that as a sign of growing maturity, not to mention safety.
Since then, I met a man who boasted of having lived at 18 addresses. He thought he ought to write a book. He told me this over a what looked like a tripleXL grey golf shirt and hunter green squall jacket. He drank a cappucino from a designer paper cup and took a pull on a lonsdale cigar. We were outside a cafe with green awnings and nice matching wrought iron tables and chairs. I was just finishing up my second double espresso, smiled, and tried to laugh appreciatively.
By then I had lived in more than 18 different cities on one continent, not to mention the others.
Then I remembered that he was probably going home to his wife, after he finished his drink and a smoke. I couldn't keep up the smiling pretense.
Instead, I stood up and nodded to him as I left, imagining that I would come back in 10 years and repeat the same scene over again, only with him looking that much older, and me still looking the same. That's how it always is.
CHAPTER TWO
The “teen” years were hard, and of course they lasted for what felt like forever.
Finally, I found a job I could do after being in school during the morning and early afternoon. I was cleaning up after church events and during the week. It wasn't regularly very much money, but then I didn't have to be regularly responsible either. That's where I met my first crush.
I was still living in Kansas City then. I had started in a shelter. Eventually Susan and Barbara, who ran the shelter there, pushed me into a couple short term jobs. I worked at the shelter and learned how to follow the directions and build up trust. Then they recommended me to work at some other places. One of my first places was a Presbyterian church. Then the minister changed and I had to find a new job. I tried for something at the Second Methodist church in town.
Having a crush was immediately difficult. Of course, she came to the big stone church to go to the events in the sanctuary and the basement dining area, not clean up after them. I was the kid who only showed up long after the religious people had been fulfilled. That made me “non-religious” to most of them, even the ones who had to hang around because their moms and dads were still making sure that someone else saw them helping. Anyway, she was very Methodist as far as I knew. For a couple of years, I thought about trying to be Methodist too. The attraction was that strong.
Sometimes I would come a little early to clean up and she would be sitting with her cousins in the balcony listening to the music, while other people belted out the hymns. I watched her profile, straight brown hair to her shoulders, high cheek bones, dark eyes. Then I had to go down the back stairs quickly, to keep from being seen. Once I recall having to squeeze past a tall woman with the same high cheek bones and brown hair. She frowned and motioned for me to be quiet.
I didn't learn her name until after I was cleaning up another event. I was sweeping up the big dining room and found a spill of some sticky red punch that was coagulating behind a trash can. I left my broom and went to get a mop and bucket. While I was in the kitchen I heard someone come in and move some things around. There were cupboards full of art and kitchen supplies worth a little bit of money, so I poked my head out to check who it was. She was wearing a blouse with flowers embroidered around the top and long sleeves. Her skirt was knee length green, and she wore stockings and the requisite shiny leather shoes. Black, like the cars nowadays. She had looked on the counter where the ladies stack their purses before helping serve. There were still some bags of plastic cups and plates piled there.
“Have you seen a green and white sweatshirt?” she asked.
“Hmm. I don't know,” I said stalling. “Maybe I could remember where I saw it, if you told me your name.”
She gave me a dirty look and answered, “My mom is waiting, and I need the sweatshirt!”
Silently, I pointed to the near side of the refrigerator, which she couldn't see from the vantage point where she was standing.
She spared me a glance, batted her eyes, then said, “My name is Helena, but everyone calls me E.”
She was partway down the hall when she finished the sentence, sweatshirt trailing over her shoulder.
She waved at me the next time we saw each other. A couple weeks later she was sitting with friends in the balcony again. And moments later, I saw them trying to sneak out during the service. They made it out and I “caught” them outside on the corner.
“I saw you inside a minute ago, didn't I?” I asked innocently.
“No, we were just coming down from the corner, up there,” Helena's friend said.
Helena elbowed her and added, “Yeah, we just came from over there,” with special emphasis on “there.” “We were going down to the doughnut shop for a powdered sugar donut and a maple bar or two,” Helena said.
“Hmm. I think I have enough for a doughnut in my pocket actually. Can I join you?” I asked.
“Only if you tell us your name,” said Helena smiling.
“You first,” I said.
We went down to the shop and sat and talked about the latest horror film that the girls liked to imagine they had permission to see, but had all seen on the sly. I had been to worse films. I got into this one over the previous weekend, because one of the people I met at the cleaning supplies store worked at the theater. She got me into the theater after the popular hours and I sat in the back and didn't make a peep, so I got to actually see the film. I can't say I even remember the details except that they seemed to fascinate the girls. The important part was they fascinated Helena.
We all walked back most of the four blocks to the church. I decide it would be best if didn't go all the way back with them. I have no idea if she made it in without getting in trouble. I only know I got laid off at the end of the next month. We still met up for donuts every other Sunday or so, but that's the only part of the story that is anything but melancholy. She got older over the summer and I didn't seem to. She actually grew several inches in the next year. She got hips and a breasts. She was even more gorgeous than ever.
I was still 12, or 14, or 15 to her obvious 17 year old looks... The last time I saw her, she asked me a question.
“Raphael, why do you look so young? I mean, I've known you for three years and all my other friends and kids I know have... well, they have, changed a bit. Puberty stuff, and... things like that. You haven't changed … at all,” Helena said, sweetly at the end, so I wouldn't feel like it was a criticism.
“I can honestly tell you, that I don't know, E. I wonder about it myself, though it's always been like this for me,” I said.
“What do you mean, always been like this?” she asked.
“When did we meet?” I asked her.
“Three years ago,” she answered.
“Right, and that's when I was in 9th grade. But I already had been working at the church then, and I got the job because I had references from another place,” I said. I guess my voice was trailing off at the end.
“What? What do mean? How old are you?” Helena asked. She didn't take a step back, for which I was glad. I already felt like a freak.
“I actually don't know, but it's not the first time I repeated a grade.” I said. In my mind I was spinning out the years. Maybe that's all the teen years were, year and years of hormones and homework.
I did look her up about 15 years later and she had a baby and one on the way. She still made my heart skip a beat.
I still looked only 17 or so. Unfortunately, she saw me too. I saw the big double take and her jaw drop.
I was on my way to a meeting with a guy about a thing, and she was in a shop with her kid in a stroller facing the street where I went past, but she almost made a move to jump up, I saw her flinch.
I felt bad. But then I remembered she would be going home with family that afternoon, probably to a guy she met out of town at college, with her kid, and growing belly.
CHAPTER THREE
I had delayed going in long enough. The lady I cleaned house for once a week, had passed my name on to this guy whom she had used in the past. I was looking for a new job again. It wasn't that I couldn't keep one. It goes like this...
“Hey Raphael, would you go get the boxes of Ramikins that's new for this year? It's in the middle of the back room floor. We jest got 'em in t'day,” said Jeffrey.
And before you ask, yes that's right. He was named after the kid in the comics.
“Okay. You want me to put them by the Genie display, right?” I asked.
“Yep, an' the way we'll fit the other toys in is put 'em on an end cap,” Jeffery said.
“What about that new cold medicine you have there now?” I said.
“We'll have to work tha' one out,” Jeffrey said.
Throughout those three years Jeffery and I made that little drug store hum. I looked about 15 then. For three years.
Then one day Jeffrey said to me, “Hey Raphael, when are you gonna grow some whiskers? I never see you any different than I did the first day you came in here with your long list of references. I thought you was just late bloomer or somepin. What's up with you? Got a condition, or somepin like that?”
“Naw, Jeffrey. Nothing like that, I just have a baby face and so I can't grow facial hair,” I lied.
“So it's nothing I'm gonna catch, or nothin' right?” he asked further.
“No, of course not,” I told him, as I began to plan my exit. That time I was using one of three different options, whichever seemed to fit best. It was the (long lost) relative calling for help, option that I chose for this exit.
A week later I was at work and I told Jefferey that I might have to go down to Las Vegas to help an uncle who had fallen down and he needed help to get up around the house.
“Otherwise he may not be able to still live at home. I'll get paid too,” I said. “Especially since the extended family will be covering part of the cost.”
Jeffrey was stacking things up for the next sale on toothpaste. He stopped for a moment, looked sad, then said, “You know I can't keep the job open for you if you are gone for more than a couple of weeks.”
“I know, Jeffrey. Thanks for everything you have done for me,” I hung my head, as I said this to let Jeffrey know I felt appreciation and sadness, for my loss of working at his family's drug store.
“If taking care of my uncle doesn't give me enough income, I may have to take another job to pay for some expenses. So could I ask you to write me a note of reference?”
Jeffrey said, “Yeah, you're a good kid, Raphael. I will miss you and all your good work.” It was a special effort for Jeffrey to speak without contractions, so I knew he meant it.
I worked in a school for the blind for a long time. The only reason I left, is that some sighted people started asking some questions. Until then, the blind students and the kids learning how to read braille and do all kinds of work that sightless people can excel at was really interesting. The blind Vice President helped get me the job, through another contact. He couldn't know how I looked so when I used the same fallen uncle excuse, it didn't seem implausible. And I learned how to read braille.
After that job I got a position at a place that was in the start of some kind of new computer technology. It was called “software.” The 'soft' part, meant something about not being part of an actual machine that was doing the figuring. Anyway, I could show I had aptitude, a High School education, and could work out how to tell the machines what to do, so I did. And they paid me for it. I bet I looked a fresh faced 18, or 19, by then.
That was when I met Miran on a bus, on the way back to the apartment. I was living in San Antonio on Jackson Keller Road. I moved back there after staying in Kansas City, Missouri for a while. Miran was a young business woman. She rode the same bus I did coming home from her work downtown. I met her at a nearby H.E.B. a couple of times. That's where we began to talk. I admired her profile a lot, since we didn't always talk or sit together, but we did a few times.
One day I was sitting down already and she had two grocery bags. She also had a handbag and a pretty black V-neck blouse, a chocolate brown skirt, and amber dangly earrings, and some bangles. She was wearing some dainty looking cowgirl boots too.
“Can I help you with one of those?” I asked, motioning her to sit next to me.
“Yes please,” she said, and passed me a heavy paper bag, full of vegetables, cereal, and boxes of something else. I couldn't help but look inside while it was on my lap.
“See anything you like?” Miran asked.
“Yes, but it's not in the bag... yet, anyway,” I replied, heat rushing into my cheeks as I spoke to this attractive woman.
“Hmm. I wonder how that could happen...” she answered, her gaze wandering out the window. She seemed to be looking at where we were in our bus ride.
“I suppose you could help me put away my groceries today,” she continued.
“That would be cool,” I said, as I tried to be cool.
We arrived at her stop. I had watched her walk off on other days, so I got ready just as she began to. I caught her smile as she noticed. We got off the bus and stepped onto a pretty clean sidewalk and walked about two and half blocks down to a Spanish style apartment building – white stucco walls, tile roof. Miran lived on the second floor, of course. The grocery bag, now heavier, weighed me down as Miran reached into her purse for the keys, pulled them out, flipped to the correct ones, and unlocked the door with one hand still partially supporting the bag.
“Come on in,” she said as she walked in. The grocery bags were set down on the counter in a small, brown tiled, galley kitchen, with ivory colored cupboards. Miran took out the eggs and milk and put them away, then invited me into the living room.
“Do you want some water? I'm going to have a big glass with ice. How's that sound?
“That sounds very nice actually,” I replied honestly.
“How did we meet again, Raphael?” Miran shouted from the kitchen.
“I can't remember just now, I think it was in a food market downtown,” I said loudly, making it up as I went along. “No, that was someone else, I met you and we talked first either on the bus, or at the H.E.B.”
“Someone else, huh? Pretty cocky,” Miran said.
“Mhmm,” I said, unsure what to do next. My words were going faster than my mind. I hadn't really thought this all through.
Miran came back into the room with our waters and handed me one. “I guess that's why I invited you to help me with the groceries though, eh?” Miran smiled.
I smiled, and sort of got lost in the moment of what I was really hoping for.
I think what happened next was that she touched the back of my hand. Her touch was light, like a t-shirt settling in place over your chest. And she ran her hand up my arm to the inside of my elbow.
I did the same, touching the back of her hand and running up to the inside of her arm. My hand brushed her chest and she leaned into it, a smile creeping across her face. I obliged and slid my hand across her blouse, like a feather. Feeling for her nipples through her bra and shirt, my hand crossed again.
She took another drink from her glass and set it down. Without pulling away, she took my drink from me and set it on a cherry wood end table, next to her currant red sofa.
“Come on,” she said.
“Okay,” I said a little sheepishly.
CHAPTER THREE
The moment we reached our very first exclamation, I felt a change.
Miran was on top of me, I was looking at her body and feeling her. Then she whispered something. I didn't hear it, because I was exploding in my brain, and head, and my body, especially centered at the apex of my legs. We made love a couple of times that afternoon, but I knew something had actually changed in me that first time.
We kept going over to her apartment for afternoon meetings, trying to get everything “in the bag” that we each wanted. The only other thing I am willing to say, is that we practiced a lot.
Pretty soon, Miran and I developed more of our relationship. We actually did have more than sex together. I came over for a movie and dinner. I fixed a simple meal for her. She taught me more recipes as we cooked together. I learned about her business. She was the one who helped me figure out one I could start, and encouraged me.
“Why don't you just do it?” she asked.
“I don't know how,” I said, frustrated.
“I can tell you that it's not that hard,” Miran said kindly, looking into my eyes.
“You are being very kind to me,” I said.
“I love you,” Miran said.
“I...” there was a big pause here as many years of being passed around flashed through my mind, “I have not had very much experience with that in my life, but... I think, I love you too,” I said to her.
That was a good day among many with Miran.
And that's how I began my dog walking business in San Antonio. It lasted longer than my time with my first lover.
I moved in with her. We figured out how to negotiate inside and out of our relationship, with taxes and corporations on her business and mine. We continued to flirt... with joint partnerships and investments. We were doing really well. She didn't ride the bus anymore. We had a car she would drive to her client's sites.
Near as I can tell, I had already been alive for nigh unto 80 years. Since I had felt about 16, I had been keeping track of how long I could stay before someone started making noises about me being unusually young for my... experience, and that alone was about 35 years. In my experience of being alive, after getting through the years of being beaten up, I was forced to learn negotiating skills, or get beaten up more. I learned various ways that were legal, and some that bent, or even broke the rules. Some of these I used when I had to renegotiate my age to make my life easier in a new place. I chose to take several grades over so that I wouldn't have to explain myself more later.
When your age passes so slowly it isn't apparent, but people around you age normally, people tend to notice. It seemed to take about 5 years when I was a “kid.” Now that I am in my late teens or early twenties in appearance, only the guy selling beer cares how old I am. Unless I'm the manager, or the owner of the business.
INTERCESSION
“Women are no match for any man, and the home - her own hovel - is the best place for my property to do their work,” he spoke loudly.
“Yes, sir,” was the reply in agreement.
Not long after, there was some confusion in the manor house. The young woman, of clearly mixed race, was directing the plantation.
There was disagreement in the town about what to do about this outrage, but even the most brutal of the big white men, the plantation owners could not figure out how to unseat this woman lawfully. That is why they planned to draw her out of the buildings and kill her for being unnatural – a woman in charge of men, even slaves.
Their own women, the wives, could be in charge of slaves, and in fact were.
“This woman, this mixed, dirt face girl, she is... an abomination! An affront to all our Godly relationships,” Mister Frank said.
“Yeah, I say we lynch her!” Nick cried.
“Now, now, Nick, Frank, we can't just go around lynching people outside their homes. We don't know how it happened that she is in charge right now. We don't even know if Jeb is coming back from visiting his 'English' relatives, like she said he was doing,” another voice came in.
“Don't matter, she is just wrong. She can't make me pay regular prices for her goods. She ain't no regular person. Regular prices is saying she is same as me.” It was a young man who said this. He wore a dandy's vest and work boots that hadn't done much work.
Not much was new after that. They were divided on a course of action. No one minded when the house burned down a month later. People told stories about the people who used to live there. It was vacant for 50 years or so. No one could buy it or the land. It had passed to one of those English relatives, apparently.
By the time Jeb moved away, Frank and Nick died. So no one really thought much of the woman who moved in, built a modest home, and started to cultivate the crops with migrant workers who set up their own homes on the outskirts of the property.
She was nice to the people in town. She was also pretty reclusive, so no one saw her much.
One day she came by the store for some sundries.
“Hello, did you find everything you needed?” the man at the cash register asked.
“Yes, thank you,” she answered.
The man wondered at how such a young woman could be in charge, or even know how to run such a large farm. Clearly she was from some Caribbean country, or somewhere, her cafe-au-lait skin was nearly flawless.
CHAPTER THREE CONT'D
This is part of the reason I decided to take up the business, or career move mandate. At the rate I was aging, I was going to be around a long time. I reasoned that I had better take precautions to insure I was well taken care of for any rainy day, war, or natural disaster. I wasn't there for the Texas City explosion, or the Great Appalachian blizzard of '50, or even the Our Lady of Angels fire of '58, but I didn't want to caught unprepared.
I started researching various investments and businesses. The main question was which one would continue to develop through different technologies. I already knew that I would always want some kind of food service and technology. People always need banks too. Those three were the real long term money makers. Especially if they relied on loans, deposits, and savings that were guaranteed by the U.S. Government.
That's the round about way I got into computers on the “ground floor,” I began with a bakery. While I was with Miran, she showed me how to make muffins, like her mother used to make. I always made them every Saturday morning, and shared them.
And then, Miran started to ask me some questions it just didn't seem right to answer anymore. We had started to fight about stupid stuff – who would get the food next time we went out, what was the best movie. I guess we were beginning to feel the end of our relationship.
I had a selection of muffins and scones that I grew into a business. I supplied stores and coffee shops. I got a kitchen, then a bigger kitchen, and then two locations to bake and serve baked goods. The local bank closed, so I met with the people who worked in the area of my kitchens and we started a credit union.
About then, I figured out how to pay into various investments that would pay to (me), or create a living will and trust for anyone bearing my name. At that point I took a vacation overseas. I was about 100 or so, I thought I was entitled.
CHAPTER FOUR
After arriving in NYC, I flew first class on a PanAm flight from the 'Worldport' at JFK airport to London. It was fabulous. I had saved for several years to make the trip. My businesses would keep making money while I was gone, and they would make payments for my bakeries and apartment expenses while I was gone.
I wanted to go see some things that were really old.
Before I left, I went to see a few of the places where I had lived as a kid. “Bad old days” of being beaten up, they were decades old, feelingcame up. I stood outside the school Craig had kicked me in the stomach when I was down. Craig was dead. His friends were dead. I remained.
I left London on a St. Pancras train to Dover, took a boat across the channel, a train to the Paris Nord station, and a taxi to the Louvre.
Standing in the hush of the room, surrounded by milling crowds all pressing against velvet cords, the mildly smiling bride of Giocondo nearby, and all the other works staring at me, a feeling stole into my consciousness, or maybe it was just my conscience. The full feeling in the moment coalesced as I passed the beautiful and ancient marble woman, the Venus de Milo. Much shorter, brighter lights than my own life had produced these amazing portraits of the lives of people, of buildings, of relationships, of landscapes and green seas, cold mountains and different peoples. My everyday experiences stretched out behind me. There was little mark. I left the museum soon after
I had suffered a long time. I had some recent successes.
I had to do more for we, or somebody else. I needed to make more of my life. If I could find something I was good at, maybe I could do something good for “all.” But I didn't trust that milling crowd either.
Before leaving France, I did make a trip to the palace of Versailles. It was old and pretty, and reminded me of the power a few people wield over others. In the grey day, the clouds billowed dark and threatening. The building was magnificent and old, somehow the layers of dirt were pointing towards the lines of the palace's face.
I sat on the train, silent, encompassed by my reflections. It took all the way to Beauvais, for me to notice a woman looking at me. She was taller than me by several inches, blonde, buxom and not really looking at me as though she wanted to talk. Her eyes, not too subtly, categorized, calculated, and stored the information for later assessment. I know she was taller than me, because she left the car, and I imagine the train at Amiens.
I saw her again in London. I was looking at old signs and buildings on West Central Street. She stepped out of a restaurant and headed down the street. She has big strides, so I found myself following quickly. The West Central turns sharply left and comes out on Museum street. The tall blonde woman stepped into a place with a sign that reads “Tea Room.” I noticed a number 10 on the door, as I entered the even dimmer room.
It is only 250 feet from the restaurant to the other building, but I couldn't see the woman. As my eyes adjusted, I realized all eyes were on me. All 15 pairs of eyes. There were tiny tables with pairs of chairs, pairs of people, except the one behind a small counter turned back to their tea and baked goods.
“Can I help you? Would you like a table for one?” the long black haired woman asked me.
“I, uh, I was looking for someone. I thought I saw her step in here,” I said lamely.
“She didn't come in here. No has come in in the last ten minutes,” the dark haired woman said.
I apologized and stepped outside. Looking left, I realized that I had missed a pedestrian walkway just to the left of the Tea Room entrance. The woman had probably disappeared through there. I walked slowly away, returning to the pub she had vacated when I saw her the second time. It was an old tavern from the mid-1800s. Unconsciously, I had resolved to follow the woman and ask about her scrutiny. Now I wondered about my decision, why was I curious? What was I hoping for?
My flight back “across the pond” was scheduled to depart the following day. My 10 days abroad had been worth it, but I resolved to take more responsibility to “improve” myself. I saw a theater production of Faust the night before the flight, at the Young Vic.
CHAPTER FOUR
After getting off the train in Amiens, the blond woman waited for a later train. She deftly managed to be allowed to ride that later train, though her ticket suggested she had originally been on another train. It was not difficult to convince the older conductor that she was no troublemaker, and just stopped for a restaurant dinner rather than a rolling one. There is a small hotel where she could get the meal she had wanted. It was called the Le Carlton, right across from the train station. She arrived in London, having taken a later boat for the crossing as well.
Dear Amanda,
Observed the subject on the train. I did not make contact, and certainly no interview. He seemed willing to pursue me, but made no move. I do not know if he is able.
Yours, Felicity
Dear Felicity,
We need to know with whom he is connected. It is of course a violation of our rules for an attached male to pass through our territory sans announcement. If he is unattached, then we need to find that out too.
Amanda.
The red haired courier in yellow spandex with blue stripes up and down his sides grabbed the return note and strapped it into his bag in the back. Both notes arrived by courier and response time was just as quick. Couriers were traversing Town at nearly all times of the day and night, it seemed. You could get a note anywhere that day, even if you didn't know the exact address, some of the couriers were private, and a few did extra private work alongside their normal deliveries. They could make $100 a day, but this one would probably pull in a few hundred for his “extra” work.
As she sat in her Bed and Breakfast on Baker street, the blonde woman, Felicity, reflected on her experience from the train. She didn't feel right about it somehow. Something wasn't the way it should be about her subject. Something wasn't right about him.
Felicity resolved to see if she could determine more without meeting up with the subject of her inquiry. The next day she would find him and figure out a way to examine his background and ties as well.
She saw him in a shop in the morning. Passed by him in a flower market. Stood near him in line. All of these unnoticed. Finally she took a break for lunch and as she left the pub, he stood across the way looking right at her. Not fleeing, but realizing his intent to meet her, she walked quickly down and around a corner. After spending so much time following him, she could smell him coming up behind her. Felicity pretended to go into the Tea Room, an establishment whose awning declared its identity and purpose. Felicity instead, stepped into the paved pedestrian entrance next door. When her subject rounded on the door and entered the Tea Room, she doubled back and left the way she came. This was probably her first mistake, for her quarry had begun to grow up.
CHAPTER FIVE
The hum of the plane as we took off from Heathrow, lulled me to sleep. After returning to New York- JFK, I passed through the South West part of Queens on side roads. “Ja-maker” Avenue was full of people. I stopped off in Glendale by the park to visit my “aunt.” She lives near the intersection of Woodhaven Drive and the Parkway. She isn't my aunt, but she lived near me when I was in Kansas City. She was sort of a “neighborhood mom.” She was one of the few motherly type females I have really ever known personally. We talked for a while, about her two sons, where they were now, about her new neighborhood, and her church. She said the church was about to merge with another one that was 75 years old.
“So can you stay for supper, or are you off somewhere immediately?” Aunt Gerry asked.
“You found me out. After over a week eating out and just now, airplane food, I would love a home cooked meal. Thank you,” I said. “Would you mind if I just stepped out for a bit to stretch my legs?” I asked.
“That's fine, honey,” she paused, then asked me, “Would you mind going down to the deli for some fresh mozzarella that I can add to the salad? Just go down Myrtle until you cross 84th, then look for it.”
It was a nice brisk walk after the flight. The weather had turned cold and I could see my breath. Brown leaves crunched under my feet. I felt a little burn on the back of my legs and some humidity in my shirt. The air smelled of a thousand city smells; rotting leaves, garbage from the house I walked past, fresh dog manure, flowers, someone's dinner cooking... garlic, onions, some kind of chiles and cinnamon. I smelled the dry dust from the street. I smelled that oil dripped from a parked car and exhaust and burned oil came from another as it drove by...
I went into the deli and wondered at my focus on smells as I was assaulted by the cured meats, soft and hard cheeses, and a slight smell of decay from the day's work in meat processing.
“Can I help youse?” said the man behind the refrigerator display.
“Sure. Do you have some fresh mozzarella?” I asked.
“In the little balls, or them big rounds?” the man asked.
“Big rounds, please. How about three of them?” I asked. I watched as he captured three fist sized wheels out of the jar filled with olive oil in which they swam.
“Shua. Anything else you need?” he said.
“No thank you. That'll be all.” I answered.
As I walked back through the tunnel of smells, I caught even more. I didn't need to freak out. “I was fine, just a little further,” I told myself..
Felicity watched through the front window of her rental car. Her subject had stopped walking and looked confused. Then he stepped to the side of the sidewalk and leaned against a wall. He was blinking and rubbing his eyes, neck and back of his head. She realized he must have begun the Onset phase. He was going to be a problem if he did not make the right kind of friends soon. She began to plan her catchment strategy.
I was blinded. My eyes seemed to explode with color. I tried to make sense of what was happening. Reaching for a wall to lean against, I leaned over. I thought about trying to get more blood to my head. Then it was like there was a visible pop, and I could sort of see again.
There were marks on the ground, that looked like the feet of people and animals. People and creatures were rough shapes through the walls of houses and buildings and bushes and trees. In the street, marks from car tires glowed faintly on the ground. I looked up and saw a couple of teenagers, who looked like they were from the Lutheran high school across the street. I saw the ground changing colors and a dim crowd coming toward me, around the couple there were two other couples. They were holding the hands of a little boy and a little girl.
“No, that's not possible,” I said out loud. I hurried back to Aunt Jerry's house with the cheese and weird vision. I went in and found her standing over the sink peeling an apple.
“I thought we might have a caramelized apple for dessert. Maybe with some vanilla ice cream I have in the freezer,” she said.
“That sounds lovely,” I said briefly.
“Could you help me bring the bowls into the dining area?” Jerry asked.
“Sure,” my vision seemed to be clearing up a little. The colors and glow seemed to be cooling off. I wasn't sure where Jerry wanted me to sit, but I saw the places at the table set for dinner for two.
“Okay, honey. Why don't you just sit down over there, and I'll take this place,” Jerry told me.
I remembered that she usually sat at the side of the table nearest the kitchen so she could dash off and get more of anything anyone wanted. I had been part of quite a few gatherings larger in number than this one at her home.
“Where are you going to be for Christmas this year? Do you know?” she asked politely.
“Well, I think I am actually going to be in California. Do you remember Thomas? He was a roommate of mine a few years ago,” I said. I knew full well she didn't remember him, since it was from more than 15 years previous, that I met and roomed with Thomas in the Bay Area. In fact, I was using the expense as a business deal to move money from one of my bakeries to some real estate that my newly formed corporation would own in Nevada. So I really was going to Squaw Valley, California over the winter holidays.
“What did you think, going in to meet him without backup?!” she shouted. “What did you expect would happen?” she asked more quietly, with more menace in her voice.
“I... I... did not know he would be so powerful,” Felicity answered.
“How can you be such a fool, after this long?” she asked again, her voice even quieter.
It was at that point that Veronika swung her hand and hit Felicity's face with a backhanded slap. Felicity's head swung with the force of the blow. It was like one of those animated movies that slows down for the impact and effect. Felicity 's hand went up to her own face. Her nose dripped blood.
“I was wrong to engage Raphael alone,” she said levelly, but then her own voice lowered, “But you were wrong to strike me. That choice dishonors your office and role.” Felicity took in Veronika's glare, lack of understanding, and stubbornness in a glance and turned to go.
“Don't make a mistake in your responses, Felicity. There are others who would like to see you fail, to fall far below the heights you have already reached.”
Felicity left the building with a trickle of blood still warming her upper lip. She had messed up big, but Veronika was only exercised about her own power not being increased by stabling this new unknown power. Well, it might be time to see if Felicity herself could bring in this “new blood.” That was how Veronika got started as well. She probably was hoping Felicity would not remember that.
“How to make it happen, and how to find the tie that binds him to me... That is the question,” sighed Felicity to herself.
It took three more years to locate, assess, and confirm all the many assets Raphael had his hand in. Felicity was only reasonably certain she had found all of them. There was an ethnic video shop in Oakland, California, a speculative fiction bookstore in Cambridge, Massachusetts, a food truck working in and around San Antonio, Texas, and a dry cleaners in Champagne, Illinois. He had pieces of property listed as undeveloped in the Sierra Nevadas, and the Washington, Cascades. He had been amassing goods and property in a careful way. There were no clear ties between the different banks, properties, accounts, and there was no way to find out for sure if he could run a lot of similar organizations and roles all at once. A big clue to the work seemed to be that Raphael favored the name Anderson, or some variation, for his own or his companies' names.
Felicity was in a library in San Antonio. Raphael got the call while he was checking in on Miran's family. Miran had died a few year earlier. He was at the school where her nieces went to school and he got a call that someone was hunting around the details of his San Antonio businesses.
Firstly, it was not a speedy process to connect with him at his friend's niece's school. Secondly, that it could reach him when he was actually in the town was somewhat a miracle. The wonders of the new technology, the cellular telephone were paying off.
As soon as he entered the building he could smell her. It was the woman from the French train and the English pub. But this time she was on his turf. She had to be there for him, messing with his business.
'Raphael Anderson' changed his plans. He left again.
Just to be sure, he asked the librarian sweetly for help finding the reference the tall blonde woman was looking for. He wanted to find out what it was, since he thought she was cute and would she please help a romantic find this woman?
Felicity was watching the food network Thanksgiving Live special, when she heard a knock at her door. She got up from the lounge chair she was sitting in and looked out the window towards the next door house. She thought it might be her neighbors with whom she had cultivated a charitable concern for her safety. She found it helpful when she was gone for long periods of time. They thought she was a flight attendant with relatives abroad. That's why she was away for long periods of time.
Felicity flipped her hair out of her face and checked her appearance in the skinny mirror next to the entry of her California bungalow house.
She opened the door and found her subject staring into her eyes. He blustered in, she was forced to back up, or be bowled over. He held her gaze powerfully. Why, she did not immediately grasp. Then he released her and she stepped out of his way.
Felicity held her ground as Raphael paced around her. She knew he could beat her in a battle of physical power, she had to beat him on cunning.
“You should know better than to try to cut someone down,” she said.
“You should know better than to invite me in,” Raphael replied.
“What are you talking about?” she said nonchalantly.
“You know, the longer lives I have already lived in each year. I suspect you're not the usual 25 year old woman, more like,” Raphael paused for some mental calculations. “More like, around 250 years old,” he said.
“Oooh, you know how to cut a girl to the quick,” Felicity said. “And here I thought you were a polite young man... of 90 or so. Born on November 25th in Maine, then shuttled around the United States for 20-some years until... well you know the rest,” she continued.
“No really, not all of it. Go on. Feel free,” Raphael tried to be as nonchalant as he could.
Felicity saw the spark in his eyes. She knew she had him. If this play didn't follow through now, it would later. She was reeling him in.
Some mavens based their initial captivation of a youth on sexuality, but Felicity disdained that as weak. In her tradition, the one she was about to destroy her 300 year old ties with, the pattern was different. The goal was to begin with something more constant than an oftentimes pull of sex. Something like the desire for recognition - power, or fame, by other names, or a solid support network, in other words - companionship and family. These were usually the best means to the target.
Felicity had helped Amanda with three other youth. They were all working with Amanda now.
Felicity realized she was going to go on just as she opened her mouth. And right there, she spun a tale that was mostly true in Raphael's hearing.
“...Working might be an overstatement. Most of what they did was whatever they wanted with her support, until she needed them to go to work. The work, was whatever she wanted from them. Sometimes she needed someone to supervise a person, or do a job for a few years. Rarely did Amanda waste resources, but in a few cases – once or twice a century - Amanda might ask her 'contracted worker' to kill a human.”
Felicity looked up at Raphael at various times during this apparent recitation to check to see if he was paying attention. She could see he wasn't quite getting her vision, with the story as it had progressed so far.
Glancing again at his eyes, Felicity decided she would have to spin it out a little longer.
“Amanda was pretty good about making certain that decision did not come back to hurt them, nor her of course. But, there is one bit she asked me to do. I couldn't stomach it. She revealed her true callousness.”
“Amanda had been pursuing one youth, had tracked down his assets in various businesses and cities, and had followed him into a store in San Jose, California. It was in a small shopping mall next to a restaurant. The store sold middle eastern foods and smelled like spices and oil. She had begun talking to the boy and was just about to 'invite' him into her protection and offer him the retainer fees. But first, he asked a question about other choices. As if he understood the negotiation and was trying for a better situation.”
“Amanda responded, 'You can make whatever choice you want, as long as it's with me. There is no better offer.'
The youth replied, 'I seem to have done alright so far without you.'”
Felicity continued, “He actually had done pretty well. He had all those assets I just mentioned, but Amanda told the youth, 'You have assets, it's true. But I will take every one away from you in the next three days, unless you agree to work for me.'
'Really, three days? That is quite a claim,' said the youth.
'Really. Tread carefully. I do not go back on my word,' and that's true about her too,” Felicity said.
“Amanda's face was placid except for the steel in her eyes.”
“Three days later she had begun to search that youth's assets as the long lost – recently widowed – absent shareholder – whatever. He had nothing left, or so she thought, he opened up an old resource she didn't even know about. It was a family who had been nice to him 80 years before. He had given them a box that over time, the contents had become more valuable, and he got it from them somehow. He sold most of the items, then began searching for Amanda.”
“She killed him. She asked someone working for her to drive into him like the wind through trees on a hill.”
Felicity was checking Raphael's face often now. She was drawing him in. She could see the wheels turning, the need for alliances, allegiances, service. They only deviated from true in exaggeration and the fact she was one who mowed the youth down.
“So are you offering me this same deal? Power, support, retainer, and work for you when you want it? Is that the deal?”
“There could be other benefits to our association,” Felicity answered without a purr, but she shifted her body to make clear what she meant. She was not above including sex as part of the offering price. She wanted to close the deal soon, Amanda was the one who ordered the killing of the youth.
“I could be persuaded. It's been a long road alone, but the whole mobster threat aspect is not a nice introduction to more... people like me,” Raphael stated. I had no idea what I was even saying. It would be literally centuries before I figured out how wrong that statement was.
Raphael went to the West City mall to meet Felicity after they arrived in town. She didn't want to be seen traveling with him, but thought that coming to a mall and meeting would be innocuous. It would have been, except for the fact that it was the day of a big senior citizen sale. The whole place was filled with people who looked barely younger than the pair actually were. Still, they found an out of the way place in the food court and ordered a Banana Coconut and a Raspberry Orange smoothies.
Raphael and Felicity sat down to discuss how they were going to storm the house where the records showing Raphael's lineage were being kept, when a troupe of flag girls or cheerleaders exploded into the food court. By their talk, they were apparently volunteering at the senior event., but they took up residence in the next section. Their voices were tuned to stadium levels though, so the pair were driven out into the mall. They found a spot in front of some optometry and eyeware shop.
“The reason the papers are important is that they may show why Amanda is more than keen on getting you into her harem,” said Felicity. She was choosing the word harem to try to offend Raphael's sensibilities as much as possible. She didn't think he was up for being a kept man. Not to the degree she was intimating.
“Really?! I think you are overstating this,” said Raphael. “I can't believe I would be left out in the cold for all this long time. No, it is a long time if my background is somehow significant, or could be a challenge to someone if I 'attain' my proper standings in the family.”
“It isn't that long a period of time, really,” Felicity insisted. “Remember, we're talking about people who live about 1,200 years. Some more, some less. And that 'family” thing is overstated in our situation.”
Raphael waved the family comment away and went on, “But how many people are we talking about, as a ...group, all the people like … us?” Raphael asked, still working out how this could be real.
“I don't know the complete history, but as near as I can tell, there seem to be four main groups, each with something like 100 extended families. Twice every century or so, we finally hear about a lone person living too long. Sometimes someone tries to make contact, but unless they are making a name for themselves-” Felicity offered.
“What do you mean, 'making a name'?” Raphael interrupted.
“Have you ever heard of the Chupacabra? Have you ever heard of a monster of Lake Langston? How about the Whitefish horsestealer? Or the Missing of the Midwest? All these legends come from some one of us gone off the deep end, doing bad things somewhere, for much longer than regular human beings live. Every time that happens, a legend gets created that lives nearly as long as we actually do,” said Felicity.
Not long after that part of the conversation Raphael said, “If we are going to make it to the hotel before dark, we need to get going.”
He and Felicity got up and walked outside the food court doors. The wind was beginning to whip up outside and the sun was heading lower. A wind whipped up the leaves and circled in the air above the tarmacadam, swirling onto the curb and down the road. It hit their car and began to break apart. Felicity and Raphael both remembered the metaphor she had used on the youth.
CHAPTER SIX
Tristen answered her mother clearly. She knew she had to, even if that was not what she wanted.
“Yes, mother, I will do it,” she was talking to her mother while she was in another room, but she would get in trouble if she didn't answer.
“I need more than a, 'yes, mother,' from you. Please tell me when it will be done by,” her mother said.
After a moment Tristen answered, “I will get it done by the week's end. By Friday evening at the latest, okay?” She didn't mean to add that question at the end, it just came out.
“That will be good. Then you will be done with it,” answered her mother.
Tristen looked around the space she called 'hers', it was a normal room, walls hung with some now fading posters of places she had yet to visit, along with some maps. Part of the reason she had to remember what the maps showed was for her protection. It wouldn't be good to accidentally visit a town she had lived in thirty years ago, looking the same way she did then.
There were more traditional girl things on her bed. Her quilt was pink and violet in muted tones. For the past seven years her mother had given her a different pink and red teddy bear, and they were all lined up around the foot of her bed. The bed was pushed against the wall, so when Tristen looked up she noticed the clothes she needed to put away piled on her extra chair. That was probably what it was there for, since she had another for the desk where she drew and wrote. That's where she had to finish what her mother had asked about a deadline for.
Looking up from there, she saw her reflection, pushed a few strands of her shoulder length blonde hair off her face. She had to find something else to wear for the evening. Tristen, her mother and father were going to go out for dinner. Maybe the black t-shirt with the white lettering that looked like spray paint, and her old jean jacket with the polka dot cuffs. Then she could wear the new high tops she had been keeping for 'later.' She still had some time, right now she had to work on her homework.
She was wearing blue jeans and a pink polo shirt with a pink argyle vest. She had on black high top shoes with pink trim and turquoise laces. It had turned out to be warmer than she had thought, so Tristen opted for the polo and vest. She always wore skinny jeans. She thought had, like, five pairs or something.
“Mom, where are we going?” Tristen asked as they awaited her father.
“It's the place we went by last Saturday night. Down from the new 'used' bookstore on 'the Mile,'” her mother answered.
“Good, I am glad we get to go there. I am looking forward to having something fresh,” Tristen said.
“Alright. Everyone ready?” Tristen's father asked as he stepped into the hall where they stood waiting.
“Yes,” the pair chorused, Tristen's intoned response earned her a shared look between the parents as she bounded out the door to their car.
“You need to begin to tell her some more about why she has to do the family history project the right way,” said Tristen's father.
“You need to tell her more about why she has to memorize places and names so carefully,” said her mother.
“Okay, so we are going to begin over dinner and then finish this tonight, right?” said the dad.
“Right,” said the mom.
“Tristen, we need you to understand why you have to do the study we ask you to do,” said her mum.
“It's not just for the grades you get at school, if you haven't noticed,” said her father.
“Dad, Mum, I'm smart. I know I'm not like other kids. That's why we have moved several times. That's why I am still in the sixth grade, long after I 'got' whatever I am supposed to 'get' from school in that grade,” Tristen said.
“Honey, we want you to 'get it' way beyond what you know now.
“It's pretty hard for me to miss that, mom. I've been in most grades twice-” Tristen said.
“Part of the reason for that is biological, babe. We live much longer than most people, and part of what that means is our bodies and all the different parts of us develop slower,” said Tristen's dad.
“Slower than other kids,” Tristen's eyes unfocused as she looked at her recollected experiences. “So that's why I needed 'do-overs' on those grades. When I was having trouble, I needed to go back a couple of times.”
“Yes,” Tristen's mother said. “And now that you are getting 'older,' you are starting to see these differences.”
“But wha-” Tristen tried to break in.
“And you are catching up biologically and mentally with your real age,” said Tristen's mom. “Yes, that means you are wayyy older than the kids around you in your classrooms.”
Tristen looked at her mom and smiled, knowing that meant she had more maturity and understanding, and worldliness and experiences... than all the kids around her.
“And that is why,” holding up her hand, to stop Tristen from continuing for a moment, “you need to become more keenly aware and careful of talking about your experiences. As you keep getting older, you are going to have experiences, just more experiences than the other kids. You are going to have lived in more places than someone your age could have lived.”
“And that is why you are old enough to get ready to join our family Table. You have to start practicing the story that our family is living with in this place and time,” Tristen's mom said.
“The reason we are here is to move beyond the human table, because we are beyond. We are beyond humans. The table is the place we talk about our role and place on this planet. While we don't know exactly why or how our race developed. We exist and have for over three of our generations, three thousand years by our own family's memory. The history of this family goes back to before the human “scriptures” were even written down.”
“Each of us needs to know our history, so that we can avoid the mistakes of our race, and those of the humans with whom we live.”
“Because we have best interest of both races, we are content to carry the memory of both races. We must keep ourselves hidden from the humans, lest they, in their ingenuity, find a way to discern our existence and endanger us.”
“For this reason, our secret existence is the prize we win in every generation. Despite plague, wars, and political upheaval, we continue, we perdure. Our race is quiet, but not silent. When outliers have gone against us, even committing cruelties upon the humans; we have moved to action. Any connection to our existence is eliminated. This is the work of this body. This is the work of this Table.
“Tonight you join this Table. After tonight, you are expected to act for the goals of this Table. You will learn things at this table that you may not repeat to people not present now. It is your responsibility to find out if you can talk to those people. Tonight you join the Tableaux Voyageur.”
After that, a large meal was served, with the youngest members expected to follow one of another of their parents, or failing that, an adopted sponsor. Tristen followed her parents exactly as they had been practiced for months. It already felt completely natural, but this time more was at stake.
She knew innately, that she was under pressure and being scrutinized, even though she had been told as much. Even though two other children were part of this same dinner, she would not be able to make mistakes on her own and be excused, or overlooked. This was the test of which her parents had told her that night, now several months past....
Find out what happens to Raphael and Felicity and the immortals whom Amanda and others are still part of. What kinds of groups, or Tables run the world that Raphael is now part of? Look for more, including a giant question for the international immortal community. Look for it in IMMORTAL BLIND.
