Good Fortune Sweet Journeys: A Novel of the Ozarks and Lake Superior

By Frank S. Johnson

All should know that "good fortune, sweet journeys" is a long-standing Irish farewell of hope for the traveler. As Michael Forester's journey transects the decades, these simple words illuminate his efforts to reach out and grasp life with a steady hand.

This story tells of a man's indomitable spirit. Centered in the Ozark hills and later on the waters of Lake Superior, the tale encompasses the people, music, and intense determination of those vibrant lands.

Michael's love for his wife and an affair from his youth set the stage with a potent interweaving of passionate themes that trigger lasting effects as they bear influences well beyond the early years of their origin. Throughout, Michael battles evil from sources beyond his control. During his intense trials he brings an unstoppable do or die attitude to bear, accomplishing ends unfathomable to those who do not know him. You soon learn he is no stranger to determination, as Michael discovers his well of this heady brew deeper than he imagined.

Michael Forester, a rural teacher in his early fifties, solo paddles the waters of Lake Superior, the mightiest of the Great Lakes, ripe with sea-like dangers intensified by the influence of organized crime.

The finale is filled with excitement and revelation in the wilds of Missouri.

Jousting with a few more windmills before his years intercede bears fruit in ways unforeseen for this country teacher on more of a quest than a holiday.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Apr 10, 2006
• ISBN: 9780595829699

Frank S. Johnson

The author has spent the better part of thirty years teaching science in rural Ozark schools. Firefighting in the Northwest, serving as a policeman in the army, and extensive traveling in his youth provided valued experiences. During his twentieth year a desire to write was sparked by two contemplative months as a fire lookout on an isolated peak above a wild river in Idaho. Different episodes in Europe provided opportunities to travel via train, bicycle, and his thumb from Athens to Amsterdam. Presently, he resides with his wife on a hundred acre farm where raising cattle and wine grapes have now taken the place of raising children. Five books later he maintains his quest to write novel tales for those of noble heart. The author has recently been honored as a finalist in the William Faulkner Literary Contest and on the short list with the Chanticleer Literary Contest.

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Copyright © 2006 by Frank S. Johnson

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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All characters in this novel are fictitious both in the Ozarks and on Lake Superior. The town of Flat Creek is completely the work of the author’s imagination as are all of itsinhabitants.

ISBN-13: 978-0-595-38588-1 (pbk)

ISBN-13: 978-0-595-82969-9 (ebk)

ISBN-10: 0-595-38588-5 (pbk)

ISBN-10: 0-595-82969-4 (ebk)

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Book I

Journey

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

Book II

One Day Closer To Better Times

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

This story is dedicated to the people who settled the Ozark highlands in the early and mid 1800’s. The majority of these undaunted, hard working people were of Scots-Irish background and brought their musical heritage with them first from Scotland to Ireland in the early 1700’s and then to the British American colonies, settling in the Appalachian Mountains of Virginia, West Virginia, North Carolina, and Tennessee. A generation later in the early 1800’s they began migrating toward the west. Most headed to the Missouri and Arkansas ozarks. There for the last 150 years, their backbreaking labors were soothed with centuries old, Celtic fiddle and dulcimer tunes. Their integrity was maintained with hard work and undaunted courage in living off the often-uncompromising ozark hill country. This terrain, rough and full of clear springs, stretches from the Arkansas River north to the Missouri River, east to the Mississippi, and west to the beginning of the Great Plains in west central Missouri.

This book is also dedicated to a woman of our times who has made it a lifetime effort to pass on the musical heritage represented in Celtic music by teaching others of the joys of this traditional folk music. She taught my daughter fiddle and helped my wife learn hammer dulcimer. Many other younger people in our area are learning to play traditional folk music because of Leann. Her husband also deserves appreciation for motivating and guiding my son with guitar. Thank you, Leanne and Jack Sours.

Finally, a special word must go to my dear wife who has serenaded me for years with her mountain dulcimer and more recently her hammer dulcimer. Her music has lifted my spirits more than once and has inspired me to creative ends during many a cold winter’s or warm summer’s eve. My son and daughters who filled in with fiddle, guitar, and recorder have made the music even more enjoyable.

Good fortune and sweet journeys!

Success is measured in the journey and not in the destination.

—Anonymous

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Acknowledgements

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A thank you to Susan Parrish, Linda Crane, Angela Myers, Ric Mayer, Nancy Parrish, and Dorothy Farrington for reading early drafts and providing invaluable encouragement. Also Stephen, Beverly, Louise and the writing group must be thanked, especially Stephen Shearer. Gary Jones, Colonel US Army Retired, must also be thanked for sharing his expertise on flying the Blackhawk Helicopter. For reading the final proof with brutal honesty my youngest daughter, Megan, has gained immeasurable respect.

Graphic design and artwork are by the author but touch up and graphic relief provided by Amanda Collins. David Tankesley, wholeheartedly I thank you for your techno-wizardry.

Finally, Theresa, my wife and best friend, deserves immeasurable thanks for reading, encouragement, and for putting up with my creative frenzies for the better part of three years.

Prologue

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Problem

She found him on the porch. His sprawled body lay on the cracked and peeling floorboards trembling from far more than the cold January air. His fingers gripped a high caliber revolver that pointed at his head.

Dear, its me, she whispered. Your wife. I’m home. Please, let me take the gun away. She caressed the graying hair at his temple, unable to think of any words that might halt the squeezing of his index finger on the trigger. The woman paused in deliberation, unsure, desperation building.

Finally, she found the simple words she wanted, but they came out raspy, broken, and not as intended. Her body shivered. Her lips dripped with tears as she muttered, I love you. Stay with me.

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The wife had driven up to the old farmhouse with the county sheriff, after returning from an originally planned three-day visit with her daughter in St. Louis. Staying over a fourth day to nurse a sick granddaughter, she had been unable to reach her husband on the phone. The ice storm had seen to that. It was now late afternoon and she knew he would be worried. Her cold car had refused to start at the grocery store and the sheriff, a family friend, had given her a lift.

No new tracks met the patrol car on the long lane to her house. Its heavy-lugged rear tires churned and crunched their way through a thin virgin-layer of ice and then several inches of dry snow. The wife took this as evidence that her husband had not driven anywhere since her departure four days before. A distance up the lane she saw her old farmhouse covered in a thick mantle of ice.

As the sheriff parked in front her eye caught the sparkle of broken glass. Shattered liquor bottles lined the porch rail above her. Glass strewn everywhere, she could only think, He must have shot them? She counted. There were the remainders of three. The wife tried desperately to make sense of it. She thought, stressing the word three in her mind. I have been away four days?

Each step met her footfall with misgiving until she reached the middle of the high front porch stairway. There, terror surged through every muscle in her body. Level with the scene she saw him flat on his back, the old revolver pointed at his temple. Hammer back, it was ready to fire. The fourth bottle, she saw, lay half empty by his side.

on her knees beside him now, painful tears fell from her cheek, dripping one after another onto his chest. She screamed in silence as she looked into his eyes. Why? Why would you think of doing this?

The husband’s eyes possessed an eerie glimmer. His stammering words shuffled out to her. I am already dead. There is a heaven. You are here. A pencil thin smile graced his quivering lips. I am so sorry, the disturbed man said as he relaxed his grip on the handgun, but continued speaking in a low muttered tone, acknowledging his guilt, to have brought you to this.

The words spoken by her husband ruminated incomprehensible for long painful moments in her mind, then germinated in her consciousness. Understanding had come to her. Gently, she reached for her husband’s hand, pulled the cocked gun from his limp fingers, and laid its cold steel aside. She covered her loving husband of twenty-eight years with her thick winter coat before she lay down beside him.

While this sad scene had occurred the large framed, khaki-clad sheriff discretely watched and waited in silence. He stood at the top of the porch steps near the couple’s feet. Sheriff Long had heard the wife. He had also listened to his old friend’s demented words, yet had failed to retrieve anything meaningful from their dialogue. There was nothing he could think to say.

Surveying the porch, he studied the pieces of the puzzle: broken bottles and their lingering smell of alcohol, the sobbing woman, and the helpless, broken man he had known all his life. The sheriff then reached out and picked up the pistol and carefully released the tension on the hammer. He retreated down the stairs to his sedan and stored the weapon under the front seat. While there, he hastily gathered up a blanket and his jacket then returned back to the top of the stairs. He draped the thick-felted wool over the couple and attempted to call for an ambulance on his cell phone. As expected his call did not go through and his curses filled the air as he scanned the tall hills surrounding the farm. Entering the house a few moments later he tried the ground line. It also was dead.

With all options for communication at a stand still the sheriff resigned himself to diplomatically wait for the right moment to pull his friend out of the cold. He knew it would have to be soon. He heard the wife tenderly console her husband. You are alive. We are both alive. Come back to me.

No answers to the dilemma came readily to the county law officer. No ideas or motives swam up from the depths of his straight thinking mind, long experienced with the concrete actions of real people. He had no idea what questions even to ask. Even though the delirious man on the porch was first his friend in grade school, he and most others in the county made no claim to understand him. However, they had stood by him as he had with them through troubles of every magnitude.

Of one thing Sheriff Long was sure, despite first appearances, this situation had deeper roots than a misuse of alcohol. He knew the trembling man and his family better than most. The motive must lie far deeper. This quaking, fearful shadow that looked at him now with lost eyes was not the essence of the man he knew. The sheriff had seen the fearlessness firsthand when they were younger. He had heard, only the year before, the story from the FBI agent when his friend was brought home broken and near death. As he maintained his vigil, the sheriff thought, Quaking, fearful men do not defend friends and family with such determined vengeance.

Reflections rekindled the past in unforgettably vivid colors. Powerful images pulled to the present and canceled out the chance of mundane motives behind this near suicide. Again, the sheriff thought how the scene before him on this bitter, January day was certainly no product of mere loneliness and whiskey.

His personal experience with the prostrate man, held lovingly by his wife, confirmed the depth of this case. He knew that what he saw before him was but a stray splintering that would heal in time. The sheriff refused to doubt, despite this pitiable scene, that the entirety of his friend remained solid oak to the core.

Observation

Evaluation #1-One day later at Cramden Mental Health Center, a private clinic tucked away in the suburbs of Kansas City, Missouri.

Medical Health Form 1456 Initial Disclosures for Admission Cramden Mental Health Clinic, 230 E. Loess Street, Kansas City, MO

Admission Date, January 3, 2003

Admitted, Sean Q. Alba, age 52, male European American, 213 Oak Street, Cassville, Missouri.

Payment responsibilities: Undisclosed, prepayment more than adequate for two months care, cashiers check from Twin City Bank of St. Paul, Minn.

Primary contact. Mary Alba, wife, 1-417-287-4567

Symptoms: Suicidal, schizophrenic delusions

Identifying marks: Scars numerous, many in parallel orientation on patient’s back, three other scars, circular approx. 1.0 cm in diameter, one on front and back of the right thigh, two in the central right thoracic area, suspected bullet wounds.

Other med. related: General physical health, good. Not on any medications. No known allergic reactions to other medications. Blood type O+.

Attending Physician: Dr. Rodney Layton

Observations

February 10, 2002, over a month since Mr. Alba’s admission.

Mrs. Alba held the dulcimer hammers in her graceful hands, idle now since her instrument’s harp-like vibrations had ceased their pleasing sounds only moments before. She watched her husband lift his fine-haired brush and delicately touch the canvas and studied a now steady hand apply subtle hints of lighting to the crests of waves in a vast body of water. Her observations confirmed how quickly and without apparent forethought he dipped the color-laden brush into the small jar of paint thinner, swished it clean in the solvent, wiped it dry with a paper towel crushed in his left hand, and finally with prompt confidence daubed again into his diverse palette of pigments. This time she saw him mix a somber hue of yellow and white. She noted how he carefully reached up and gently brought the light color in contact with the figure of a man in a long narrow boat with his tiny brush. He did the same with the lengthy double-bladed paddle.

Now, as he sat back in his chair, she studied her husband. He seemed to be contemplating the reflections of light on the rough waters and also appeared quite pleased that he had captured the essence of a desperate scene. Mrs. Alba looked at her husband’s painting. The big canvas held upright by the easel was filled with the image of a man in a storm on a large body of water fighting for his life. She wished his mind dwelt on some less violent topic and not on the one before him.

Quiet steps and than a gentle almost sad voice from behind caught Mrs. Alba’s attention. Mr. Alba. It’s medication time. Please, stop for a moment. Today, let’s see if you can take your medication without the aide’s help.

With a disappointed look the wife watched her husband continue to paint, seemingly unaffected by the nurse’s presence or hers. Then curiously, she guessed because of unseen others observing, the nurse turned toward what appeared to be a large mirror across the room, then back, and moved to block her husband from the view of the mirror. Mrs. Alba heard the nurse speak quietly to her patient, Mr. Alba, the doctors are watching. Talk to me like you did yesterday. You are being evaluated. You could help yourself get out of here if you listened.

Mr. Alba’s wife again studied the nurse as she stopped her one-way conversation and sidestepped so the patient was clearly in view from the two-way mirror. The flowery smocked caregiver waited, briefly looked into the mirror, and shook her head.

Glancing around the hospital room, Mrs. Alba found the wall that displayed two oil paintings. Hungry for conversation she told the nurse more than asked, Rather good ones, don’t you think? One, a portrait of a border collie, black with white markings herding cattle, struck her as the better of the two and was her favorite. She noted other unpainted, gessoed canvases leaning against the bureau ready for her husband’s brush. She reminded herself to purchase more for her husband to paint on before the month was out.

Mrs. Alba again calmly surveyed her husband as he applied the final strokes to this most recent of renderings which several staff members had told her was his best work. This still attractive, dark-haired, but expectantly graying woman near fifty argued in her mind as she continued watching her husband, You aren’t beyond help. You can’t be. Yes, you are disturbed and your painting could be the work of a deranged man, but your writing tells it all. Mrs. Alba paused in her thinking and examined the new colors being worked into the raging waters with gentle brush strokes. Prophetic words filled her thoughts, If we all could be so sane.

She listened to the monologue that occurred much the same whenever she visited her husband. Nannette Gonzales, a fit and experienced nurse close to thirty, again tried to lure her husband into speaking. Mr. Alba, will you write about this painting, too?

Mrs. Alba heard no answer. Disappointed, she formed a tight smile as she listened to the medical attendant speak to her husband and all who listened behind the mirror, I hope so. You spoke yesterday and I was anticipating a repeat performance.

Again, she watched Nurse Gonzales look towards the mirror. This time she stood longer and did not shake her head. Then, Mrs. Alba watched the kind woman turn to the door and walk into the hallway where two burley aides waited with a medication cart. She heard the nurse say to the young men, Be gentle with him, then saw her step briskly to another room and another patient.

Turning back to her husband she thought about her visits, once and sometimes twice a week. Mrs. Alba had seen positive progress in her husband’s condition but the mental steps he took seemed to her so very small. She knew that anyone watching studied her as well as her husband. Behind the mirror the medical staff, she was aware, indeed monitored not only his meager progress but also her impatience.

Hypothesis

Evaluation #2-February 10, 2003, Cramden Mental Health Clinic

Two men, well dressed but in opposite extremes of fashion, looked through the two-way mirror into Mr. Alba’s room. The one obviously in charge, Dr. Rodney Layton, a slim, middle-aged man, wore an old fashioned bow tie with his brown tweed suit jacket. Behind him a small group of doctors hung on his every word. Another doctor, younger and in more contemporary clothing reviewed the situation as the senior psychiatrist spoke.

Dr. Kashanski. Dr. Layton addressed the man beside him with a tone of equal respect. Lean-faced and graying he looked with intelligent and caring blue eyes beyond his junior colleague to the other medical personnel. Visiting doctors. You can see the patient is presenting us with all the symptoms of acute withdrawal. He has not spoken a dozen words for a month, but, the senior doctor of the clinic paused and looked over the group to make a point, his words are becoming more common. Nurse Gonzales, who is with Mr. Alba at the moment, he graces with a thank you now and then.

Dr. Layton studied the scene through the mirror as his patient painted enthusiastically, recalling when he had given his consent, with reservation, for Mrs. Alba to bring him paints and canvas along with his laptop computer.

Not wireless? No Internet? Dr. Layton remembered asking Mrs. Alba politely, but really commanding in a diplomatic manner.

Just a word processor, the quiet lady had said. And also, may I bring a musical instrument when I visit? My husband loves traditional music played on my dulcimer.

Now, as Dr. Layton stood before the mirror, two weeks since the introduction of the art supplies and six weeks into the patient’s hospitalization, he found himself pleased with Mr. Alba’s clinical progress, although suspicions remained concerning the lack of background information provided by Mrs. Alba.

He had called the phone number given him for a reference. A dispatcher at a sheriff’s office in an obscure southern Missouri county had answered and put the sheriff on the line. Later, Layton had looked up the county and compared it with the address Mrs. Alba had given as their residence. It didn’t match. It was two counties to the west. The doctor specifically remembered how Mrs. Alba had described this sheriff as the first law enforcement officer on the scene.

Sure, officer Long crooned with a strong Ozark accent, known him all my life. Mrs. Alba gave you my number because Sean’s family has known my family for generations. His answer to another question was unexpected. A calm man, slow to anger. Dr. Layton wished he could have seen the sheriff’s face when they conversed. Body language, he knew, could speak so much louder than words.

Assuredly, Dr. Layton had thought, the sheriff was at best giving him a sugarcoated description. Mr. Alba had been far from calm and clearly suicidal. Untruths the doctor found manifold in his profession either from the disturbed or the patient’s friends and family. Disturbed people are incapable of telling the truth, while the sane frequently tried to cover their sick family member’s tracks with their own lies. His career in mental health, Dr. Layton was well aware, entailed deciphering the truth and helping his patients hold on to it. He made a note to call Sheriff Long again. Maybe on another day the sheriff would let more information slip out.

Dr. Layton’s logical mind reviewed other pertinent data on the patient’s chart, as he habitually adjusted his bland colored tie with his free hand. Then he spoke to the group. Only during his wife’s visits does he look up from his painting or his writing. He does recognize her, but even then, he gives her only the briefest of smiles and the simplest of words. However, this alone is a breakthrough. He reaches to her, holds her hand, and then continues his work. Fine work, I might add, both his art and his writing. We’ll see what tale develops from this most recent painting. Questions so far? Dr. Kashanski? His youthful but very insightful peer shook his head, so Dr. Layton glanced among the other visiting psychiatrists.

A female hand rose. Dr. Layton recognized Dr. Ferro’s question with a nod. Janice Ferro, Dr. Rodney Layton thought before she spoke, young, brilliant, well educated, a productive career ahead of her, and oh, so very beautiful.

Dr. Layton, a few of us are confused. The patient’s writing interests us, but… He watched dark and intelligent eyes of this concerned young professional look back across the group and then again to him before she spoke again, we have read the short stories, the poetry his wife has provided, and what is clearly the beginning of a book the patient is compiling. None are literary masterpieces, but they are certainly not the works of a disturbed man. The other paintings Mrs. Alba has brought from her home show us the patient has found peace with his artwork. So, she began with clear apprehension in her voice, what I’m getting at, doctor, is after reading his stories and seeing these paintings we are wondering why the man is here? Shouldn’t this be a case with outpatient status?

The well-regarded senior doctor, a graduate of Harvard, PhD in psychoanalysis, class of 1979, pondered the question thoughtfully with polite professionalism. His previous experience in public mental health and his five years at Cramden’s private clinic had earned him the respect of his peers on a national scale. His publication of over twenty major articles in as many years in top mental health journals had iced the cake of Dr. Layton’s aura of expertise. He felt himself informed, confident, and quite capable of providing a logical answer to Dr. Ferro’s question.

I see your point. However, there is more, Dr. Layton said with an unmistakable self-righteousness evident in his last three words. Remember, he was suicidal when he first arrived. Extreme depression. His wife caught him on his front porch with a pistol to his head. Large amounts of alcohol were involved. She had been gone four days to visit her daughter near St. Louis, I think she said. The patient’s wife also mentioned, and I haven’t told you this before, that the entire family had experienced large amounts of stress for the past two years with violence being a major factor. However, she refused details or to comment further. It is obvious to me, that he was sane when the wife left to visit her daughter in St. Louis. The man before us must have experienced a terrible mental trauma while his wife was away.

Looking at his colleagues, Dr. Layton wondered what volume of valuable data Mr. Alba’s wife was sweeping under the carpet. Major or minor amounts, he thought, it happened so often. It was a shame. It makes my work so much more difficult. Patients’ families hide vital information, obviously thinking it too embarrassing to reveal. So much more could be done. If only they would trust me initially.

Then to the other doctors he said, I feel we owe the patient to discover what trauma pushed him to such extremes. This will take time. Outside sources are providing financial support and insist only on our care. It is an interesting case. I feel we should pursue it on a daily basis. Where the patient lives would make a daily commute unfeasible.

Dr. Layton acknowledged many in the medical group as they nodded their heads in agreement then turned his attention to the nurse who had just spoken to the patient. Her voice transmitted clearly from a speaker in the wall. Through the glass he watched Nurse Gonzales gently try to persuade Mr. Alba to speak and then abruptly look into the mirror, uncannily and somehow knowing, directly into Dr. Layton’s eyes. At first the lustrous, dark eyes of his favorite among all the medical staff bound him. His heart beat faster, more than it should, as if Nette was not just staff and an intimacy truly simmered between them.

Trying to regain his professionalism Dr. Layton self-consciously shifted his gaze through the two-way mirror back to the patient and his wife. His peripheral vision, to his relief, sensed Nurse Gonzales turning away. Dr. Layton’s cold emotional control, too quickly recovered, refocused and excluded any personal thoughts concerning his relationship with the attractive Latino nurse still standing before him. With callous deliberation that erased the affair from his mind, the self professed happily married doctor, pulled up and organized his mental files on Mr. Alba in his steel-trap memory.

When he first had seen Mrs. Mary Alba, the patient’s middle-aged but still attractive wife, her sincere dedication to her husband was readily apparent. However, something troubled the psychiatrist. She was far too vague concerning the history of her husband’s dilemma.

Mrs. Alba had related to him over a month before how Mr. Alba’s dreams surely must have led to the bottle and the pistol on the porch. It had struck Dr. Layton as odd to hear what she had said next, You and I would both have a gun to our heads if we knew what he knew. Damocles’ sword is always hanging above him. Dr. Layton remembered Mrs. Alba telling him no more but had decided that the fact she appeared quite sane only added to the mystery.

Dr. Layton continued to initiate discussion behind the mirror as the group’s attentiveness focused on his every word and gesture. This case presents an interesting problem. I am sure we all will learn from it. From the evidence, its outcome does not appear to be cut and dried. There is much more to be gained for the patient and for our own knowledge. You and I have read the writings of this pained man. True, they are reasonably well written and even inspiring in places, but they represent only a microcosm of Mr. Alba’s mind. Since our group met last week, Mr. Alba told his wife, I’m ready."

The doctor paused and then said, I know you all noticed his early writings are tranquil as are his two other paintings. Only today’s seascape in the storm shows the boiling emotions inside the man. Mr. Alba’s troubles are beginning to seep out. I see the violence he is depicting with his brush as an opening we should pursue. You have observed a man escaping on a daily basis, totally focused in his art. I am hoping he will continue to express his feelings in his written words. Maybe then we can help him find the key needed to open for a brief moment and then lock tight again his private Pandora’s Box.

Attuned to Dr. Layton’s logical analysis the other doctors again nodded with mutual approval.

Taking a few moments to collect his thoughts, Dr. Layton then asked with newfound authority, Anything else? Questions? None came so his evaluation continued. You are seeing total escapist behavior in this man. The problem, of course, is that he goes into his pictures and doesn’t know the road back out. To tell the truth, I am quite envious of him. He paints a scene vividly, studies it for an afternoon, and then loses himself again writing the story in the picture for days. He speaks to no one, as I have already said, except for simple words of thanks or possible recognition. When he eats very little, we call his wife. Besides her weekly visit, she then makes a long extra trip from her home. She convinces her husband to eat. He then goes back to his art and writing all again.

Catching his breath, the previously emotionless doctor concluded with a more intense tone in his voice. He is so focused when he writes that you imagine he is worry-free and content. But when we get a chance to read his words about this new painting still wet on the easel, I predict we see just the opposite, especially if the story continues beyond it. If he places himself into rather painful situations and deals with them, he will be making progress. Healing, I hope. I expect him to be playing Walter Mitty to the hilt, day-dreaming to the extreme. Either way he will be cleansing his system and looking his problems in the eye, coping in his own way. We can only wait and see how it turns out. Again he looked out across the group then said in compelling and enunciated words, Progress, if minute, is being made.

Dr. Layton, sure of his captive audience, paused trying to remember something. He looked down at the medical chart in his hand. Oh, yes, back to the dreams. Very rarely, twice now I think in the last month, Mr. Alba talks to the walls or the windows or the ceiling. He appears to listen to them also. We have yet to understand this behavior but an early stage of schizophrenia is evident in his behavior. These dreams of which the wife spoke give us another reason to keep him longer than mere outpatient care. We hope to gain more clues soon.

Another hand went up. A male doctor of East Indian descent asked, Excuse me, Dr. Layton. Playing a Walter Mitty on us? I don’t understand.

Ah, Rahz. Long ago this was a story every American schoolboy and girl used to read in high school literature class. James Thurber tells us of the noble dreams of the most paranoiac of daydreamers, Walter Mitty. Certifiably com-mittable at times, we are much the same.

A weak laugh broke out among the group.

Dr. Layton continued. All of us find ourselves escaping in our day-dreams. Walter Mitty is the classic middle-aged American man bored with his mundane job and nagging mother-in-law. He is constantly rescuing damsels in distress in his dreams when he should be working or listening to his wife’s list of honey-dos. Brave knights rescuing fair maids and all that. Do you understand?

The young East Indian, a fine up-and-coming therapist in Layton’s opinion, said a quiet, Yes.

Dr. Rodney Layton concluded, Ladies and gentlemen, we hope to understand Mr. Sean Alba more as time progresses. Looking into his writing will be a priority for us all, and it should provide us with a connection to his subconscious. Maybe then we can decipher his dreams and help this man to handle his pain.

The group of psychiatrists watched Dr. Layton as he stopped and studied his patient through the mirror. Mr. Alba remained intent, brush in hand and working his canvas. The good doctor’s poker face remained for a moment, chiseled deep with the beginning lines of age and unchallenged intelligence. However, they saw another look come to him, a sparkle in his eye that suggested a less disciplined curiosity.

Doctor Layton spoke to no one in particular as he made an astute artistic observation of the raging battle between man and what appeared to be a restless sea. His treatment of reflections on the boat and water are intriguing, don’t you think? Do you suppose he might give lessons?

The other doctors smiled, seeing that their self-absorbed emeritus colleague could bare more of his human side than they had expected.

Book I

Journey

CHAPTER 1

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The Best Craft For The Path

Kneeling down on the concrete floor of the cluttered basement shop, his right eye carefully followed the long curving shape of a work in progress. Its sculpted lines, he thought, projected those of a lithe, lovely woman. It was no mystery to Michael Forester why boats of all types were named and often referred to in the female gender. Running his hand over the hull’s smooth contours, the nearly retired teacher spoke quietly to the boat with emotion bordering on adoration even though he had yet to put it in the water. You’ve definitely been a pleasure.

Finishing a kayak produced feelings of love and dread for the graying rural teacher. The self-satisfaction he gained from first designing, then building, and finally paddling his basement-built boats on a tranquil body of water were both to be considered of importance in his mind. However, enjoying the grace of his kayaks on the water was the bonus, the icing on the cake, so to speak. The cake, obviously, was the building. Success, he believed, should be measured mostly by the journey. Destinations, he had found repeatedly in life or on the water to be let downs.

Michael realized the importance of building something well. He relished the unique characteristics of each boat formed by his hands. His were not kit-boats, but products of his imagination and inventiveness. The sequential mating of parts, one to another, became in his mind a joyful step-by-step process, their logical union a pleasant distraction. This constructive process was a peaceful respite from the insane antics of the world outside his workshop window. The rat race grew distant and blurry on the evenings he found time to work with large but lightweight sheets of plywood and resinous epoxy.

While this new kayak spent its last hours raised above the basement’s cement floor, Michael contemplated the over two-month journey coaxing the wood to this final stage. The boat’s clean lines were eighteen feet in length. They emphasized the contrast of a white painted hull and dark varnished, natural wood deck. Her narrow waisted beam heightened her grace and consequently, her speed.

Beautiful but not to be pampered, this sea-going kayak was destined in Michael’s eye to glide with effortless motion over glassy waters or push hard through a violent storm. It was a lifeboat to itself. If holed or broken during an episode of touring, Michael might cringe in disappointment but knew that attaching a temporary patch on site or a lasting fix at home was always an option. However, if demolished, building another was just a part of the plan.

Yet, at this point in time, none of Michael’s kayaks had failed. They had passed the excruciating tests that only high winds and crashing waves could provide. Lady luck remained his mistress and helped him stay off the rocks in hard weather. For many years, especially in the long winter evenings and on weekends, Michael could be found in his basement gluing together a sleek, dependable boat. He contemplated the near future when putting this new one through her paces.

A lone boat, built in his youth, lay rotted on the stream bank not far away. More of a duck boat than a kayak, its overly solid construction made it far too heavy. The next boat, built thirty-five years later and fifteen years ago, belonged to his son, Peter. Peter’s initial desire at fourteen to put together a kayak with his father’s guidance spawned Michael’s new era of boat building.

The strongest virtues of his kayaks lay not only in their seaworthiness but also in their weight. No inner struts or stringers added extra pounds. Literally stitched together, the thin three-veneer plywood pieces received a light fiberglass covering for strength, making the kayak strong but still lightweight. Remarkably, this method of construction he used also produced a kayak with a tight, hard shell, impervious to most of what nature could throw its way. These boats bobbed like corks in rough water and raced along leaving canoes far behind. Weighing in at just over fifty pounds, it could handle in storms the two things a canoe could not, high winds