Begin Again: Short stories from the heart (12 page)

For the first time since his descent, Samuel looked around—truly looked. He blinked, blinked again. From a distance everything had appeared green, lush,
vibrant
. But what now lay before him was an expanse of decay and ruin such as he’d never before witnessed. A green fungus, disguised over the expanse of The River as healthy foliage, covered every tree trunk and limb. Pools of fetid water emitted an odor so foul Samuel held his breath as he scurried around them.

This could not be! Long tentacles of grassy overhang grabbed at him. His paws bled as he raced over thorny briar patches. The farther into the forest he ran, the more he fought to deny the sight that unfolded before him.
Could
the vision he’d seen from the other side of The River been nothing more than a cruel trick the sun’s rays had conjured up for Samuel’s eager eyes and mind?

Sensing he was being watched, Samuel whirled around to discover several pairs of haunted eyes staring back at him from behind patches of tall brittle growth. Cautiously, the scrawny little predators inched forward, ribs protruding over matted wisps of fur. Samuel was drawn to their eyes—empty and haunted. The most emaciated down-trodden creature in the group limped forward. He may have been a rat or some other type of rodent, but he’d degenerated to such a degree that his true lineage was difficult to discern.

“Don’t look at us with such horror. You are one of us now,” the rodent mocked.

“Hah!
Hardly.
I’ve come to make a life on this island with the oak tree. I have waited and planned for a very long time. I am most definitely
not
one of you.”

“Of course,” the rodent said, letting out a hollow cackle that was more menace than laughter.
“The ever-faithless promise of the oak tree.
Tell me something, squirrel”—the rodent narrowed his beady eyes—“did her shiny leaves blow in the breeze just so, making you think she was calling to you? Did her strong limbs make you dream of finding hours of comfort in them? And did the grace and elegance of her trunk cause you to believe she would shelter you?
Forever?”

“How did you know?”

“Do you think we always looked like this? Lived like this?” the creature asked, raising a chewed-up hairless paw toward the rest of the group. “I see you are thinking. Yes, each of us
fell
prey to that very tree. And each of us betrayed ourselves and everything we held dear to get to that tree.”

Before his words could register, a sudden, piercing sound screeched above them. The animals scurried for shelter in the denseness of the brush. Samuel followed the rodent and hid behind a large bramble. Seconds later, a barrel-chested hawk swooped down to the recently vacated spot. He surveyed the area with predatory eyes for a moment before soaring to the sky once again.

Samuel was the first to speak. “I saw those very birds from across The River. They appeared so majestic and strong.”

The rodent spat out, “They are strong because they prey on the likes of you and me!”

Samuel refused to believe the rodent’s cruel words. “I gave up everything for this place. I
will
find the oak tree and it
will
bring me happiness. I’m sorry for all of you but I’m not like you.”

“Open your eyes, squirrel. You are
exactly
like us. You sold your soul. Just like the rest of us.” With that last comment, the rodent disappeared into the brush.

Samuel turned and ran from what he feared might be the truth. The faster he ran, the more manacles and thorns grabbed at him. He finally emerged from the wooded prison and fell exhausted at the foot of the oak tree.

All doubt fled as Samuel gazed upon the magnificent beauty before him. Slowly, with great reverence, he touched the bark, enjoying the rough texture between his paws. The green leaves were long and beautiful, tantalizing him as they swayed in the breeze. Pain and doubt fled. He would never look back in regret at what he’d left behind.

He had found his true home.

He bound up the tree, heading for the largest most succulent acorn he’d ever seen. Samuel plucked it from its stem, cradled it gently and made his way back down to the ground. He caressed the nut, reveling in its soft gleam. Oh, how heavenly it would be to taste the lush meat within—sweet, fragrant, intoxicating. Unable to wait a moment longer, he cracked the acorn open and peered inside. It was empty.

He stared into the hollow shell, confused. Then he tossed it aside and scampered up the tree after another. This one cracked easily but was just as empty as the first. Samuel threw it aside and darted from one nut to the next, cracking each open and finding the same black nothingness inside. How could this be? He’d seen the fruit, seen the tree. Hadn’t he? A rustling behind him disturbed his thoughts and Samuel turned to find the rodent peering at him, a bizarre smile on his face.

“Just like the rest of us now,” he taunted.
“No way out.
Not now. Not ever.”

As the rodent scurried away on hairless feet Samuel wondered how long it would take before he looked like that. He hung his head, the weight of grief too heavy, and lay down among the empty acorn shells.

A few weeks later, Samuel pulled a thorny branch aside and peered across The River. He’d found that brambles were good hiding spots but they tended to tear at one’s coat and often drew blood. But they were safe. Grassy banks were not. Neither was the sunshine or long stretches of daylight—not if one valued one’s life. His gray coat was tattered and thinning with burrs stuck in odd places.

But he was alive. And that was better than some of the other creatures crawling about. He’d lost weight which wasn’t surprising when the only sustenance one could look forward to was an odd assortment of bitter berries and dried leaves.

He squinted across The River. If he looked long enough and hard enough he thought he could see Jacob resting on the grassy bank. Perhaps not a bed of velvet but a soft comfortable spot just the same. And off to the right was
his
oak tree. Not beautiful and tantalizing but strong and sturdy with thick green leaves and a solid trunk. Someone had cleared the weeds from the path, tended the garden, showered attention.
Showed love.
The oak,
his oak,
stood proud and serene. And he knew there would be acorns. Abundant overspills of them, scattering the ground.

Samuel licked his lips, almost able to taste the sweet meat. His mouth watered. He closed his eyes, dreaming of his tree. Wishing… wishing… Something pinched his tail, rousing him from his daydreams.

“Best move, fast,” the rodent warned. “Our spot’s been discovered.”

Samuel took one last look across The River, his attention settling on the oak tree. Later, he would find another safe place, even if only for a few minutes, and then he’d gaze across the water and dream…

The End

Several years ago, I read an article about a man who’d kept a secret family for years without anyone’s knowledge. I was fascinated that someone could and
would
actually do this. That one small article lived in my subconscious for years, emerging occasionally as I considered how a person might achieve this, the effects on the primary family as well as the
other
family, the pain, the grief, the anger, the emotional, financial, and psychological entanglements between the two, and the ultimate question; which was the
real
family? I became so engrossed with the emotion of the situation that I knew I had to create my own characters and my own story and so emerged,
A Family Affair
.

I have received many emails from readers who are wondering about Charles and Gloria Blacksworth. Who are they? How could they do what they did?
The weakness?
The commonness of it?
The selfishness, especially for Charles and his secret life, which appeared to benefit him most of all.
One of my first drafts contained a narrative in which Charles thinks about his life and his choice and is simply not strong enough to make that tough call. An integral part of his backstory is his sister, Ellie. He loved her, yet couldn’t save her from the illness that killed her. She is the one who leaves him with a parting message that propels him to enter a daring relationship with Vivian when she pleads,
Live. Live for me
.

And Gloria?
Well, when I read her backstory, I am saddened and want to tell her ‘Wake up, don’t sell yourself!’ But wait, I’ve created Gloria, so I guess this is how I saw it play out. Two more tidbits before I post the narratives of Charles and Gloria Blacksworth.
A Family Affair
was initially titled
Four Days a Month
. If you’ve read the book, you’ll know why. And second, the ending was different for the first several drafts. I’m glad I didn’t choose it because doing so would have changed the entire dynamics of the story. Still, I want readers to know what almost was.

From Charles Blacksworth’s viewpoint

He sat in the dark, staring at the slit of moon illuminating her hair. She was asleep, the slow methodical rise and fall of the chenille spread taking her dreams away from him, safe, protected, while he hung caught between sleep and wakefulness, too afraid to close his eyes lest he miss these last few hours with her. It was always like this, the dread mixed with the longing, pulling at him, shredding his sanity.

God.
He ran both hands over his face, settled his gaze once again on the tiny arc of wheat chenille. She deserved better, more, certainly more than this. For ninety-six hours a month they were a family, doing family things; peeling potatoes for mashing, changing light bulbs, raking leaves. And then he left, returning to his other life, moving through the days in his hand-tailored suits and starched white shirts, CEB monogrammed in bold block letters on the right cuff as though he were in someone else’s body, speaking someone else’s thoughts, wearing someone else’s clothes. Living someone else’s life, and all the time waiting…

Timing is the key to a good life,
his father had told him. Of course, he’d been referring to the stock market, getting in, getting out,
capitalizing
on the deal,
making money
. His father, Randolph Ellis Blacksworth, had known about that all right; he’d started Blacksworth & Company Investments of Chicago in 1957 with a handful of investors and a sublease on a second story suite on Michigan Avenue in downtown Chicago—a dingy, faded red brick building with leaky plumbing and cracked plaster. But by year five, he’d paid back all of his investors and rented the first and third floors. By year fifteen he owned the entire building. Year twenty-five, he’d expanded his properties to include two more buildings, and by year thirty, Randolph Ellis Blacksworth graced the covers of
Fortune, Forbes
and
Money,
a commanding presence puffing on a cigar in a pinstripe suit, his much-coveted pocket watch visible to the world.

But timing was about more than cashing in on an investment. Charles knew that, had always known that, even if his father had not. It was timing that brought joy or misery to a person’s existence; ten years could make an oldest child a youngest, shed him of duty and responsibility, strip family titles, permit him to follow
his
destiny, not that of his father’s. Timing granted freedom, to live, to love, to choose… or it claimed that same freedom, imprisoning it in duty, demands, and expectations.

Those who knew him through business or country club functions would say that he, Charles Edwin Blacksworth, was both fortunate and blessed. Fortunate to be the eldest, heir to the prestigious firm of Blacksworth & Company Investments, fortunate to sit on the board as its CEO, blessed to have a beautiful wife, a gifted daughter, fortunate to own a 7,000 square foot Tudor in Essex Estates, a membership to Silver Leaf Country Club, two Mercedes.
Blessed to have his family close to him.
Fortunate and blessed.
But Charles knew better.

In the early days people had expected him to accept his wealth and opportunities with casual graciousness, as one who is used to, even anticipates the best possible outcome. But expectation quickly overrode anticipation, beating it to the ground, squeezing the breath from it until there was nothing left but what others thought he should do and he himself knew he must do. And for years he did just that; bowed to expectation. It hadn’t mattered that his first love had been medicine or that he possessed a driving passion to study cell proliferation, find a cure for cancer,
change
the medical world.
You’re a Blacksworth
, his father had said, when Charles told him the week before he graduated from MIT that he’d been accepted to Georgetown Medical School.
You’ll run the company one day, make a difference, change the way people think about money…
So, Charles had walked away from Georgetown, buried his dream and studied stocks and commodities instead of micro-organisms and disease processes. And he was successful, a born leader many said,
a natural
.
This is where you belong—
his father’s words remained buried deep in his skull for the next twenty years—
here, in the boardroom, not in some
cramped lab squinting at germs under a microscope
.