Yet Untitled: The Story of Every Man

By Welby Thomas Cox, Jr.

Thad Hamilton was a man whose life was on a treadmill, though he would not accept that he too was one of those mumbodies playing out an existence, leading a life of quiet desperation. Then, it changed, he had an auto accident and crossed over to the other side. Oh, sure... he too had always scorned "the light in the tunnel" as a bunch of bull-shit but there he was on some platform as if waiting for a train. Then a garishly dressed little woman with a monkey on her back and a sign with the name "Hamilton" haunted him, taunted him before reminding him there was no train for those without deeds.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tablo Publishing
• Release date: Aug 18, 2018
• ISBN: 9781925819915

Welby Thomas Cox, Jr.

I was born a bastard, and over the next sixty-five years I lived up to the reputation. I found it best to do so as a writer by telling the truth and letting the chips fall were they may. Was this a reputation earned, or was it a red badge of courage for being honest to the person I had become. This book is about honesty and there is no hiding from the hideous truth about what the United States Government did to the great Indian nations.

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Author's Note:

The cover designed and painted by Welby Thomas Cox, Jr.

Welby Thomas Cox, Jr. aka Thomas Welby Cox

Library of Congress Copyright # TXu1-309-323, May 17, 2006

Cox, Jr. Welby Thomas, aka William Grayson Stall

Yet Untitled

This is a work of historical fiction, based upon actual events, except for all known historical figures which the readers may well identify; names, places, dates and incidents pivotal to the writing of this book have been developed solely in the mind of the author Welby Thomas Cox, Jr. and he takes full legal responsibility for the content of the book. It would be purely a matter of coincidence if someone might be recognized as a character in this book: Yet Untitled …unless, that is, you happened to be important. LOL!

DEDICATION

To My Beloved Mother

Mary Catherine Simpson Cox

April 15, 1922-November 7, 1988

Though you passed on November 7, 1988 and it is now thirty (30) years, I still hold you close to my heart as Mother and dearest friend and, it is your love which precludes me from suffering the world’s greatest tragedy for a human…not to have been loved at all or to have been a willing participant in the creation of six beautiful children!

THE ACCIDENT

He remembered the panic in her eyes as the cars collided; she had run a stop sign… crossing a major highway. She looked like one of his children and he wanted to reach out to say, it’s going to be okay.  He saw metal crushing in slow motion as he was thrown into the steering wheel and his knees ripping through the dashboard.  Hamilton remembered the impact with the windshield and the thought that he could not die this way… he had too much to do!

There was a flurry of motion around him but Hamilton was drifting… he was at peace, not unlike going to sleep but more blissful and aware.  There was no pain now in the minutes after the accident, just an animated sense of withdrawal into the nether world… or that place which threatens to compromise life as it was known. On the platform waiting for the next train and regretting or wandering of the one you missed, one of the quintessential life lessons…some follow it; some fear it; others treat it as a responsibility or a burden to bare and march steadfastly forward onto each platform without question as to direction, priority or the more suttle questions of community!

  But this platform was marked with several signs pointing in various directions: African/American; Major/Minor, Chinese / American; Major / Minor, English / American; Major / Minor, French / American; Major / Minor, German / American; Major / Minor, Indian / American; Major / Minor, Irish / American; Major / Minor, Japanese / American; Major / Minor, Russian / American; Major / Minor.  Hamilton was confused; bewildered; frightened and yes… to answer the pivotal question which haunts every living person: was he most afraid of dying…or of knowing that he was dead! 

He was about to follow his heritage when a garishly dressed elderly lady with a monkey on her shoulder strode leisurely by and whispered to him, Take the road less traveled! she said to him while handing him a sheet of paper.

Who wrote that line you just used?  Don’t you know, madam, you must always give credit where credit is due? he said.

My name is Sarah in the Sky… there is no credit here, just deeds! she said, but if you insist on giving credit, it’s a bit of Frost!

Now there you go again, Sarah in The Sky is a song, and you are taking advantage of me because I am …

Gone! she said.

Before he could finish Sarah and her monkey grabbed his hand and began to dance around and around as they sang…,  are you blue, too much to do, I don’t know the reasons why, I’m just Sarah in The Sky!

Please, please he said, I must find my way. He said while looking at the note.

"But at my back I always hear

Time’s winged chariot hurrying near;

And yonder all before us lie

Deserts of vast eternity"

There you go again… taking these great liberties with the work of others, but I remember this one, its Marvell, Andrew Marvell.  Sarah, you must give credit where credit is due!

Marvell, Marvell all around, like grease and oil on the town.  Monkey see/ Monkey do/ I have something new for you…  Sarah in the Sky!   Now is that credit Mr. Hamilton and what do I get for it… when what I need is deeds! she spoke in a very quick fashion, sort of like William F. Buckley, except she didn’t have all his facial expressions, nor the use of the tongue for pause sake…or multisyllable words.

Hamilton thought she probably could not use more than a two syllable word, and she and this monkey where beginning to get annoying; but she was all he had… here at this intersection, and then he remembered she had spoken his name…and clearly stated that he was dead, or was it gone?"

Wait a minute, Sarah, how do you know my name?  And, I guess you also know my mother’s name is Sarah as well… and, that we are from Indianapolis, Indiana? he said.

I know your mother Sarah.  I know her very well.  I’ve waited a lifetime now, to keep her out of ….well!  Oh!  Oh, that’s so ugly and I promised not to say… that I wouldn’t use that word again, and I've already used it… yet today! Sarah spoke in the cadence of an aspiring street poet but her voice had the ring/rang chatter of fun and frivolity, mixed with a sense of wanting, and also of needing to be someplace else in a hurry.

Now look, Hamilton, it’s been nice talking to you, but it’s time to play the game.  Say the magic word and you win the monkey… and you can go away. she said.

There it is again.  I know that one.  Can’t you be original?  It’s Here’s Groucho…  Groucho Marx! he shouted.

Then Sarah seemed to begin to wilt; she became subdued and she said quietly to Hamilton, Sarah in the Sky is waiting here… for your mother, Sarah to die.  I am her mentor; I get a deed for that duty, a deed that I need and I can move from the Minors.  You have no mentor…you have no reason for being in this world…you are an aberration! she said.

Sarah, I am here because I am dead…you said… Hamilton felt himself beginning to feel the emotion. An emotion he had stifled since he was a small child. Big boys don’t cry…you know!

Please tell me why you are playing this wicked game.  Please stop… this game is painful!  I won’t say a word about credit.  But, my mother is worth more than deeds or credits…this woman is a saint Sarah…a home run for you if you are her mentor! But…if I am dead…doesn’t that mean that you have been waiting for me?

Well, you are dead…but you are not gone Hamilton… and the game that you must play is finding a deed, not a credit… to get you to the Majors and/ as soon as your mother, Sarah joins me, I’ll be on my way to the Majors!

You mean to the community called Irish/American Major? he said.

Oh no, when you get to the Majors, everybody wears a pin stripe; there is no need for personal identification.  We all start with imperfections; living is one of those.  We all must learn… to live life down! That is the reason that you are not gone Hamilton…your life has epitomized credit! Here, there are no I’s; there are no we’s; there are no me’s.  There is no room for narcissism.  Human potential and all its vain insidious effort at self-aggrandizement is as forgotten here as is… she paused…

Credit! she said.

No sooner had she uttered the word ‘credit’…Sarah’s image became more and more ashen…and then she was gone!

Hamilton was so very relaxed, floating toward some place or space, perhaps Irish/American?

Don’t forget, it’s your place, not mine; hurry back…hurry back… you’ve much to do before your time!

He could no longer see Sarah; he felt only a soft, but efficient motion moving him somewhere, and then a voice, like an old time victrola being cranked and starting to play oh so slowly, C-R-E-D-I-T  S-A-V-I-N-G  T-H-I-S  L-I-F-E  T-O  T-H-E  B-I-K-E-R M-R, H-A-M-I-L-T-O-N, WHERE ARE YOU GOING!

Dear god, Hamilton thought.  It’s him, I must be in the Majors!

Then the motion became more profound; and the blurring; the birds, the peace, the tranquility were replaced by intense pain; confusion and movement, everyone moving quickly, before him.  So much pain… and the fire, the heat beneath him, and now, the heat and the fire was also coming through the windshield, and steam was billowing behind it from enjoined engines on a sultry September morning.

Hamilton thought he saw a helmeted alien glaring into the smashed windshield.

AQUA…WATER! 

The alien, now more focused… was an angel in the uniform of a cyclist…she produced an orange flask.  Hamilton tried to take it, but his arms were gone.  His eyes communicated the pain and the need for the lifesaving liquid.  (Surely you have the same need.)  And the water was now on his face, running coolly down his forehead; he opened his mouth and swallowed… blood!

Now Hamilton was sick.  And a fireman was pulling off the door.  And someone was spraying the engine.  And then once again the comfort of the netherworld!

He was back at the platform with all the signs pointing off in directions to Africa, China, England and Ireland, and there, near the pole, on the side of the platform sat a man from India with his legs crossed Indian style.  He was wearing a grand turban on his head with a great jewel in the middle.  Near him stood an American Indian in full Indian regalia.  He had his arms crossed and his feather headdress sat atop his head like a crown vested in all the history of a civilization once proud, once powerful, once in touch with all…even nature… over which it had prevailed.  Hamilton approached the chief.

How! Hamilton said lifting his arm in an animated gesture of friendship, the kind he had seen so many times in the movies….and had wanted to immolate.

Heil!  The Indian swung into a Nazi gesture… resembling the Indian gesture for peace but was far more pronounced and disciplined.

No sir! Hamilton said, it’s not heil…it’s how!

I know how, dip-shit! I just need a chance!  The Indian spoke with a most incredulous look, on his face. It questioned the moment and infinity…as well!

Wait a minute; that is the oldest racial joke.  I remember it from my childhood! Hamilton said.

Get on down the road, you honkey redneck.  This is my territory and that’s no joke! the Indian chief said to Hamilton.

Go on over there and harass Gandhi.  I got no more time for you.  I’ve given you all I’ve got…and you gave me trinkets and a pup tent in return!

The Indian never changed his stern look or his position.

Hamilton moved over to the end of the platform thinking to himself that the chief must have been only a representation of some deep seeded guilt or hostility, or even an aggressive distrust for anyone wearing feathers.  After all, the Tribes did get the casinos, and hadn’t Monaco done well with Casinos?  He addressed the man from India who did not bother to get up from his position on his little rug.

You are not really Gandhi.  He died sometime in the early part of the twentieth century?

No, no, the chief says that all Indians look the same to him…you know, if you have seen one Gandhi…you’ve seen them all!  I am DT Patel! the man said to Hamilton.

Yes, and what is it that DT stands for? Hamilton asked.

Patel jumped up, threw his arms skyward and began to sing,

If you’re alone and life is making you lonely you can always go, DT!  I know a place where the music is loud and the lights are low, DT! Patel resumed his position.

Petula Clarke! Hamilton shouted.

No, DT Patel! the Indian said.

I sure hope I didn’t offend Crazy Horse, Hamilton said.

He had, in short, an excellent eye for a shot, with bow or arrow, and loves exercising it!  DT Patel said.

Surely it would not matter here among the deceased that is to say, if Crazy Horse did in fact, go on the war path! Hamilton said. Wouldn’t that be some form of double jeopardy…I mean…how can you kill someone twice, isn’t it true that once you are dead…you’re dead?

Oh that wasn’t a description of the Chief.  That was how Catherine F. E. Spurgeon saw William Shakespeare as published in 1935.  Just a bit of trivia to add to this sterling conversation. DT Patel said.

Goodness.  The Minors is a frustrating place. Hamilton said.

For most the desire for goodness proves infinitely frustrating! advised DT Patel.

I have always tried to be good, to do the right thing by all.  I wish that I had put more energy into it, as I did with business. Hamilton said.

We are all primarily aware of what we want to be, therefore the majority of us maintain a persona while living out lives of someone else, unable to live with the compromise of just being ourselves… for to do so, would be to accept that we are mainly… inadequate.  This is what Hollywood has sold each of us since we were children! DT Patel said.

I never had a problem liking myself or even being glad that I was who I was.  At times I did try to see myself in a normal two parent family with other siblings… but, I guess if there was a single thing I missed most was that I was never sent out into the world with a purpose, you know like a Jesus Christ, Ignatius Loyola, St. Francis of Assisi, Mother Theresa or, Hamilton paused, Gandhi!

The only purpose in life is to matter, to count, to stand for something individually and to have it make some difference that we have lived at all! DT Patel said.  As the song goes Mr. Hamilton, Oz never did give nothing to the tin man that he didn’t already have.  You have asked for a purpose.  It isn’t too late.  You have done much for many through your schools, and that is a blessing upon you.  But, there is more that you can and will do…if you are to come again to a life of deeds…  Goodbye, Mr. Hamilton, DT Patel said.

LIFE IS ALTERED

The auto accident took his life in a way.  Thad Hamilton survived… but he was never the same person; the accident had a multidimensional impact on Hamilton.  It changed forever all that Thad had been taught, what he knew to be the truth and the goals and ambitions of a wealthy man well into his prime.  The accident itself was only a catalytic converter for what Hamilton knew he must do.  Something corny…a change of life event… all that he knew and felt told him that he should not be here in this life among the normals… but, should instead be chasing fly balls or Sarah in the Sky…whatever it is that they do in the Minors.  In all his life, he had never truly believed that there was anything more to life than what it is that we have been dealt…and then it is left to the survival of the fittest to cut and slash your way to the top. In the end… a few friends gather and comment on how good you look…: (what a wonderful life you had… hoping you had sufficient insurance and estate for the family you’ve left behind… and, then the visitors leave you to the eternal function of pushing up grass on some hillside spot). That’s all there is to it…or so Hamilton had thought.

What began on that beautiful September morning would manifest itself in a major way thirteen years later to the very day, and Hamilton’s new found zeal, patience and humanistic dedication to the words of D.T. Patel…to make a difference… would play a role in changing the world as well!

Thad’s recuperation from his physical problems went fairly well.  His recovery, except for soft tissue damage, took less than a month.  After a week in the hospital, it was discovered that a kidney stone had been dislodged by the accident, causing blood to appear in the urine.  Strange, Hamilton thought, that you could have a malady resting inside an organ for years and then an ever so slight adjustment could wreck such havoc. The pain from the newly discovered stone was short lived after Hamilton was connected to fluids intravenously.  The stone apparently was passed… as did the pain, and after other test, CAT scans and x-ray Thad was sent home to recover from leg and knee trauma, broken elbows and severally bruised and broken ribs.

But then Eleanor, his wife of eighteen years noticed that Thad began telling outright fabrications over the most mundane questions.  She watched him.  Told him meaningless stories of the lives and asked innocent questions about his background to which he almost always made up a story she knew not to be true. When she was puzzled by the fabrication, Hamilton would only smile and say, Sarah in the Sky.  I don’t know why!

Eleanor called Thad’s physician and related these perplexing experiences. 

We had the best man in the head injury business look at the CAT Scan, perhaps he missed something.  Let’s get him in as soon as possible for another look, Dr. Kara said.

Arrangements were made to get Thad back in to see Dr. Horton, a neurosurgeon.  After speaking with Thad and Eleanor and revisiting the CAT scan he suggested that a new round of tests should be made and sent Thad to St. Joseph’s Hospital for another series.  With the work-ups completed, Thad was told to go on home and the physician would call as soon as the outcome was analyzed.

The next day, Dr. Kara called and related the test results to Eleanor.  He had suffered a severe head wound and was suffering from Post-Concussion Syndrome, a consequence of head trauma and sever bruising of the brain.  The condition caused major reactions and swings in response to questions Thad would have dispatched easily prior to the accident.  Dr. Horton and Dr. Kara both agreed that the malady would be remedied in time, and, that the thought process would be restored, they could hazard nothing more than a WAG, short in the engineering business Thad knew so well as, Wild Ass Guess.  When would the head injury go away and the function of processing information once again be normal for Thad?  That day would never come for him…instead of bemoaning the negative, Hamilton was retrospect…becoming far less apprehensive toward direction and adopting as his new life’s credo the words of Robert F. Kennedy…  Some people see things as they are, and wonder why…but I dream of things that never were…and ask…why not?

Of course, the family was concerned and alarmed over the condition.  Thad imagined that if the neighborhood children knew of his condition…they would have been certain to treat him in much the same way as Bo Radley, the challenged hero who lived next door to Scout in To Kill a Mockingbird.  They would hang out to get a glimpse of the weirdo liar who lived at Shawnee Parkway.  The house… the big old Italian Revival in stucco and tiled roof sitting across the parkway from the 700-acre park which he had purchased after his divorce from his first wife…Joanne, Mio’s mother!  It was a beautiful place with a lovely veranda running across the front of the house and around one side.  It had a carriage house connected off the other side and a beautiful garden courtyard complete with Italian statues of David, Neptune and Diana on pedestals as well as a lovely fountain in the corner with three cupids spilling cooling water into a recirculating pond.  Thad had decided on the acquisition because it was convenient to the branch bank where he worked and, it served as the office for his Children’s Cosmapolis, a business he had started, as a side venture, and a place for his young daughter, Mio, as well as the hope that the venture might lead Hamilton to full time opportunity outside the bank someday.

  He could utilize the carriage house as an office/studio apartment and there was a lovely little bedroom with a view for Mio when she was visiting.  Thad was able to arrange a great mortgage with no cash at closing through the bank where he worked.

But the main reason for the purchase was the mood, which took Thad back to Italy where he had studied for a semester.  Sitting there, at certain angles, he was again in the courtyard at Pistoria, having an espresso and watching with joy, the locals go about the morning routines as though he was part of the bench. 

Ah Aldo, Heh Antonio! 

Words moved Hamilton, especially Italian and this morning reminded him of those he had read which had been translated by a little known poet, It must be morning there is crystal all around and everywhere the kind of optics which imbue the spirit and the mind with a special freshness, that’s above all genuine but I can always find comfort here in the early hours of waking, knowing that you are waiting, knowing that you will come running with eyes still moist from wanting.  And even though I can’t touch you now, I can’t kiss your lips, I can, hold your mind!

So lovely, that compelling feeling which drives a man and a woman, in any language… when they first learn to love.  And now the morning sun had burned off the fog, which hung over the Tuscan valley moments before, like an old quilt historically chronicling the past and steadfastly holding on to the present.  Thad knew this experience evoked something deep inside which gave him the sense of being a part of history, there when Hannibal marched through the countryside on his way to defeating Flaminio in 217 B.C., there, no more than 40 kilometers from Vinci, the birthplace of Leonardo.  Thad fell in love with the light, as had DaVinci and all the other masters before and since, God given and inspired, how could no one paint he thought, or write?  The light on the valley with the green sweep of the Apennines, as the forested slopes angled toward the valley, vineyards and olive orchards began, and the landscape of the artist and the poet meshing the mellow stone farmhouses dating to 500 A.D., their terra-cota roves solidifying each farm to the land.  There was no dating this scene in Thad’s mind, a picture as complete and infinite as antiquity.  Looking out, looking into the soul that is Italy!  North, south, east and west was the essence and allure of the whole country. 

Thad knew and felt the spirit, after several visits.  He had been to the boot at Sicily, to the watery reaches of the Veneto, those revealing extremes of this country where he had taken Eleanor and they fell in love in Firenze, staying at the Kraft Hotel they were able to visit all the special sites, rest in the afternoon in the custom of the Italians and then dine at any one of the great restaurante where wonderful wine, crostini with chopped fresh tomatoes, a dish of potatoes, porcini mushrooms, big shrimp, mazzancolle followed by cicoria, maybe a mixed salad, always steaming and too much food.  And in Verona, the Basilicata and Marche regions, Bellagio, Asola, Bologna, and more and more with the castle towns around Lago Trasimeno which could be seen from the hillside.  It was all about the love affair that he had with his wife; she too felt the connection to history and to Thad.  They were of a single mind and though she knew of his sorted romantic past she was secure that she knew his spirit and felt that his search was over.  And she intended to see to it that he would have no need to search another!

This was the reason he loved the house.  Whenever he was there somehow, he was transported back to the little villages in Italy, and it was his piece de resistance’.  The main house was a three-story construction with access from the courtyard to two lower level studio apartments generally occupied by students from the medical school.  It had been elegantly restored and tastefully converted from a single-family home into six apartments.  The main floor with its magnificent stairwell and foyer formed the entrance to the first floor apartment that had a formal living room, dining room/study, bedroom with working fireplaces in all.  A bath and small kitchen led out to a screened porch and into the gardened veranda.  The second floor contained two large one-bedroom apartments, one of those in the rear of the house had a lovely screened in porch overlooking the garden.  The third floor was an artist dream suite, a garret style studio complete with quasi-castle turrets, permitting the light to stream through in different shades as the time of day dictated.  The windows contained leaded gothic panes creating the surreal effect of the Santa Maria Basilica in Florence, Italy but the light was that of Indianapolis, Indiana!

It was a great old house, which would have cost a couple of million to build in 1988, but in 1967 the house was on the block at a fire sale price of $ 95,000.  Of course Thad had the bank inspectors look the house over carefully including structural, foundation, walls, leaks, had the plumbing inspected and the roof, to his delight was very expensive terra cota, no more than five years old and good for another forty years according to the roofer.  The income from the apartments was more than sufficient to meet the debt service on a twenty-year loan at 5-½%, and the appraisal came in at $ 20,000.00 over the sales price.  The carriage house wasn’t included in the income, so there was another bonus, free rent for the business and a place to live.  It was a deal made in heaven. 

At the closing, when the attorney asked if there were any other questions, Thad asked to no one in particular, Why are you treating me so well on this deal? There was no answer, but a look on each face which gave certainty to the calm before the storm.

They all laughed nervously, as if to say no one wants to go there, but no one would hazard a guess as to his good fortune.  The owner of record, the estate of a deceased single man named Dennis Mattingly was represented in his absence, by a real estate agent, a small wiry woman who chain-smoked and coughed throughout the closing to the discomfort and dismay of the others.  But Thad treated her with respect, at a distance, and as they left the closing they walked out together to the parking lot. 

Tragic matter, she said.  Thad looked quizzically at her

Mrs. Toddy, poor thing

I’m sorry, Thad said, I do not recognize the name.

Elderly lady, lives in the basement of the house which you just purchased, has been there now all these years, watched them come and go.  You know, wouldn’t harm a fly! 

Thad noticed a