Down the Row from Benjamin

By Rod Hollaway

Down the Row From Benjamin is the story of the life-long love between Ellis Ashton and his recently deceased wife, Rosa. Their life together has been full of challenges that they have met and overcome. Together they built a life and a successful textile business. In the weeks following the death of Rosa, Ellis has withdrawn and is overcome by despair, until the letter that challenges him again.

The letter, written by Rosa just weeks before her death, asks one last thing from Ellis. Please, she begs, you must tell Craig about Benjamin. Tell him everything about the family that weve hidden all these years. Tell our son about his real parents and why they werent here for him. Its time for him to know it all.

And so it begins. Ellis starts to write everything in a journal while sitting at Rosas gravesite for hours every day. Everything goes into his journal: the guilt Ellis feels after witnessing the murder of his father. Why it was necessary to change their name before Craig had even seen his father. What was the awful truth about Craigs mother that they never told him? Who is and who isnt a part of the Ashton clan? How life began to settle and even improve when his life included Rosa, and then how quickly perfection was torn apart and his future with Rosa was no longer guaranteed. In fact, it was uncertain if he even had a future in a world torn apart by war.

Ellis struggles against the well-intentioned concerns of his family over his newly diagnosed heart problem. In addition, his friends and family have noted his gradually increasing confusion and his seemingly obsessive need to complete the journal. Ellis battles exhaustion and failing health to complete the epic story for Craig as he had promised Rosa. Desperation leads to his final reckless act to conclude the story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 28, 2012
• ISBN: 9781469775265

Rod Hollaway

Rod Hollaway MD is a retired physician, who lives with his wife, Linda, and their dog, Mindy, in Broken Arrow, Oklahoma. Down the Row From Benjamin is his first completed novel.

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Copyright © 2012 by Rod Hollaway.

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.

Down the Row From Benjamin is a work of fiction and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

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ISBN: 978-1-4697-7319-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4697-7526-5 (ebk)

iUniverse rev. date: 03/15/2012

CONTENTS

Preface

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

Dedication

To Lin: the best thing that has happened to me this side of Heaven.

Acknowledgement

Very special thanks to Marsha Paris, who worked tirelessly and without complaint. I never knew what a superb copy editor she is. Outstanding job, Marsha.

Preface

The hard times that started for Ellis Ashton in Holy Oak, Iowa coincided with the worst economic backslide ever known in the burgeoning history of the young world power. The Great Depression caused normally sane and solid citizens to take rash and ill-considered actions against friend and foe alike. The sudden birth of paranoia became a part of daily life. Never before had diligent, hard-working Americans had to fear that what belonged to them would be, or could be, snatched away. The time brought out both the best and the worst in the nature of man. How one dealt with bad times seemed a reliable indicator of character. Surely, those people referred to in this accounting are evidence of that.

Ellis was perhaps too young on that morning to understand how he would change when forced to face the future without the guiding hand of his father. He could trace everything back to Holy Oak. At first, there was Holy Oak and the family; then there was Holy Oak and a black void that was the future without his father. He had what he had learned and he had character. He had his mother too, but she had been badly damaged by the event of that day. She would go on, but now she was quite different. Now, she focused on each day as it came, with no thought for the future.

Except the local paper in Holy Oak, the event described in the newspapers had barely been a one-paragraph filler, but it had, suddenly and completely, changed the boy forever. Ellis became a man on that day; forced to grow up with what his father had taught him before he was killed. Much had been missing, but the basics were solidly implanted. There was character that had been present since the day he was born and now triggered, it would develop and protect him into the future.

The death of the small town Iowa sheriff and the death of Benjamin Chandler years later in Viet Nam appear cruel and random turns of nature resulting in a permanent father and son separation. What an unkind irony that both events would affect the same person. First, as a young boy, and then later as an adult who had seemed to overcome life’s initial callous indifference. The unjust fate that Ellis lost his father before the age of twelve would be a heavy burden to bear, but add to that, that his own stubborn pride would later cause the separation of another father and son. Would not the weight of that repeated self-blame be too much for most men to endure?

One can only hope that Rosa is right and the relief received by telling the story will be the thing that will assuage the loss. This may well be Ellis’s last chance to tell it all and put it into proper perspective. Perhaps it will lessen his sense of responsibility. Maybe, by telling the story again, Ellis can somehow see what happened as an unavoidable circumstance of the time with no guilt attached. We will see.

Chapter 1

November 1929

We lived in Holy Oak, Iowa. A wide spot in the road about sixty miles from Des Moines. My father was the sheriff, and I had just started my 11th year, still on the short side of manhood, when it happened. Looking back, I guess it all started with what would come to be known as the Great Depression. The insanity that was widespread in far off locales such as Wall Street and New York City seemed foreign and unlikely to alter our simpler way of life. Eventually though, the effects did begin to trickle down to our little town, and even those of us lacking in investment funds and large bank accounts were forced to face the changes brought on by… well, I don’t even know. Nevertheless, changes in banking and finance managed to transform the way we lived in our small town. Ultimately, it resulted in the death of my father and the destruction of my family.

Now, some sixty winters later, as I reread my childhood journal and think back on the details of that day, it all comes back to me as if it had just happened. The details are fresh and very personal. I was there. I saw it all. I was the essential cog in a series of events that aligned just so on that morning. The smallest change in our route might have altered our ultimate crossroads. What if we had taken time for a prayer with breakfast before we left the house? A few words of thanks and a plea for guidance through the day? Any number of things could have postponed our departure. Almost any delay would probably have saved a normal adolescence for me, and emptied the carafe of guilt that I have consumed since then.

Anyway, that day didn’t seem to be anything special. I don’t recall what small change in routine caused my father to offer me a ride to school that day, but I would give anything if it had not occurred. Instead, the incidents of that morning changed my life forever. In the end, Jed Nathan and my father came together because of me.

The snow fell like large puffs of cotton and the wind moved them around into sculpted drifts against the fences. In the early morning frost, the air was like frozen sludge; difficult to suck into our lungs. The raw sting of the wind that snaked between layers of coat, shirt and long johns carried the cold. Despite the frigid conditions, a few hearty souls braved the elements. Life went on in spite of the weather. Errands didn’t wait for nice spring days. On the way to the schoolhouse, I still remember seeing Mrs. Hawkins carrying her basket of eggs to sell at the general store, just like every other day. She had a muffler wrapped around her neck and face and I almost didn’t recognize her. Then the wind gusted and separated the muffler from her face allowing her large hooked nose to peek out into the cold. No one else in Holy Oak had a nose like that.

I didn’t see anyone else on the street, until we were at the crossroads of Main and Juniper. The bank sat on the corner and Mr. Meechum was at the door preparing to open for business. I didn’t know how to feel about Mr. Meechum. He hadn’t lived here nearly as long as most folks in the town. He was a bit of an outsider, and a loner, and I think, he felt above most of the people here. Yet, it was almost as if he was personally ejecting families from their homes, and that made him seem cruel and evil. Most of all, he wasn’t going to lose his home.

Through the falling snow, I saw the blur of someone else coming up the street. His image was partially obscured by the falling snow, but I was sure it was Jed Nathan. He took long strides as he walked towards us and it seemed as if he was unaware of the cold and how hard the snow was falling. Two things caught my eye right away. First, he wasn’t wearing a coat, and what was most ominous about his appearance was the rifle or shotgun over the crook of his arm. Not many rabbits or deer running up Main Street, so why the gun?

The words came out before I thought about what I was saying. Daddy slowed the car and then stopped altogether, when he saw the gun. We weren’t more than fifty paces from Jed Nathan and saw the crazed look on his face.

The mellow mood of the early morning had instantly changed to one of danger and foreboding. Daddy turned to me and took me by the shoulders; his grip tight enough to hurt, and the tone of his voice so firm that I dared not speak. Don’t get out of this car, son. You hear me? You stay put until I get back.

I saw no fear in his eyes, but it was sure enough that he was telling me something important that I should obey. I nodded my head, but didn’t say a word.

He got out and slammed the door. The sound resonated in the car, but in the blustery wind, Jed Nathan took no notice. He didn’t even turn his head. Daddy yelled out to him, Where you going out in the snow, Jed? You must be cold without a coat. Daddy’s words floated on the steam of his breath and his voice oddly reverberated in the snow-muffled streets.

When Daddy called out to Jed, the silence of the falling snow was broken. His voice demanded attention, like the sound of cracking ice when you walked on a frozen lake. Mr. Meechum turned and saw my father. In the next second, he saw the approaching Jed Nathan and his shotgun. His eyes widened at the sight.

Jed closed to about ten feet behind Mr. Meechum and stopped abruptly. For the first time, he seemed aware of his surroundings. The loosely held shotgun snapped up level and pointed directly at his prey.

Meechum! he yelled. His frosty breath shrouded his head.

The panicked banker fumbled with his keys. They tumbled from his trembling hands into the snow. He dropped to his knees and frantically pawed through the powder. His eyes darted between the snow that covered his keys, and the lunatic that threatened him from the street.

Jed! Daddy said, I don’t figure we need a shotgun to handle bank business. Why not put it down and let’s talk this over. We can go inside out of the cold. There was no waver in his voice, no sign of dread. It seemed a long time before Mr. Nathan let on that he even heard my daddy. None of the three men moved for what seemed like forever.

This business has nothin’ to do with you, sheriff. You’ve done your part already. Just get back in your car there and drive on. We won’t be needin’ your help anymore. Jed’s eyes never left Mr. Meechum.

Mr. Meechum slowly stood; the keys dangled from one hand and both hands rose into the air. Sheriff, you can’t desert me here with him., his shaky voice pleaded.

Jed, you know I can’t just leave you here like this. You’re not acting like yourself. Daddy took a few slow steps in Jed’s direction. The shotgun abruptly turned. Now, it pointed directly at my daddy. All the breath squeezed out of me. I felt paralyzed; I couldn’t draw a breath.

Can’t see as how you can stop me, sheriff. Besides, he said, There won’t be any problem here, just as soon as Meechum gives me back my land. It’s all I have. It’s all I know. It’s worth fighting for… or dying for. Jed Nathan didn’t appear angry or even upset. It was just something that needed to be taken care of. I make my payments to you the first of every month, just like I have for most of ten years. He raised his voice and thrust his chin toward Mr. Meechum. In all of that time, Meechum, you never once had to remind me to pay what I owed. You never got your money late. So, why do you do this to us now?

The shotgun was still leveled unwavering at Daddy. Mr. Meechum seemed suddenly unafraid. It isn’t me, Nathan. It’s nothing personal. It’s just business. He quickly slipped the key into the lock.

Daddy stepped closer and Jed raised the shotgun to his shoulder. Don’t be a fool, Jed. This won’t work. Daddy said. There was still no fear in his voice.

With Jed’s eyes on my daddy, Mr. Meechum quickly turned the key and moved through the door slamming it behind him. Jed turned his head when he heard the door. Daddy stepped toward him. He grabbed for the barrel. The shotgun went off. There was a second or two where the ice-encrusted sound encased that part of the street in its own time, separate from how the day was to have started. It echoed off the cold and squeezed my heart to a standstill.

I ran to Daddy, the snow drifts pulling at my shoes as if I had weights around my feet. He had slumped to his knees and was looking down at the expanding blossom on his shirtfront. He sat back on his boots as I reached him. His eyes were wide in disbelief and shock. I helped him lie down in the snow. His skin seemed as pale as the snow and his face wild with confusion and desperation. As he lay in the snow on the street, rivulets of crimson trailed into the white patches of snow. I could tell he was having trouble breathing. He coughed and pink, frothy spittle drooled from the corner of his mouth.

Daddy, Daddy! I yelled. This could not be real. Not here in small town Iowa. Not here.

His tried to speak to me, but he coughed repeatedly; with each cough, more blood pooled in his mouth. I huddled next to him and raised his head onto my lap. The wound in his chest bubbled blood with each desperate breath. I took my coat off and laid it over his chest. I saw that his glasses had been bent as he fell and they lay partially wedged under him. I managed to pull them out and straighten them. I carefully placed them back on his face as if that would make things better. There were things that he still had to teach me and still much I needed to know. I was only eleven and there was too much that I hadn’t learned.

Our eyes met for a few seconds; he tried to speak, and the light in his eyes faded. He was gone. I had killed him just as sure as if I had pulled the trigger. If only I had kept quiet as we drove by that morning. If only…

The snow surrounding my father turned to a deep crimson. I knelt there in the street holding him close to me, oblivious to the cold and the snow that settled on his hair and lashes. An animal sound of anguish escaped from me and was lost in the frozen morning. I tried to lift him closer to me as if that would prevent his departure. Tears rolled down my face in torrents and I felt such emptiness in my heart. Even in the midst of the terrible emotional loss I had just suffered, I remember thinking, Why had I shouted? There would have been no way that my father would have seen Jed Nathan if I had been quiet. No way. The day would have begun in English-Lit. The study of how Mark Twain cleverly manipulated characters through Tom Sawyer. Just like I manipulated Daddy and got him killed. Oh my God! What have I done? What have I done?

For several weeks before Daddy was lost to us, there were a lot of scared folks in town. These were the type of people that stood up to droughts, floods, frost and insects. They weren’t likely to panic over nothing. Knowing this, I worried when I heard talk in the street about how the bank was out of money and would have to call in all their loans. I didn’t understand the idea of a bank being out of money, but I guess they did, and they were afraid. The kids at school didn’t talk of it much, but we were all aware of it. It was tangible, but inexplicable. The not knowing made the possibilities much worse.

Daddy came home for lunch, and he and Ma talked for a long while sitting in the kitchen by the stove. I’m sure I heard Ma crying as they talked. Whatever they were talking about was serious. They always talked low, with their heads almost touching when they talked about serious stuff. When Daddy left after lunch, he hugged Ma for a long time and then he pulled me close to him, too. He mussed my hair just like he always did, but it didn’t feel like most days.

Take care of your ma, now, son. I’ll be out a while. he said.

Daddy seemed sad when he left. When he came back home that night after dark, his eyes were red rimmed. He just held Ma when she met him at the door. He didn’t say anything for a long while and then he pulled away and said, It’s done, but I don’t think it likely that this one will be the last.

Ma’s face seemed so afraid. She looked that way when she heard that her mother had died almost three years earlier. The look was sad and yet not believing what she knew to be true.

The next day, Daddy and Ma sat down with me after breakfast. Son, Daddy began, there are lots of things changing round here and I expect you will hear about them at school. Just as soon that you hear it from me, so I know you were told right.

I didn’t say anything, but the tone of his voice made me afraid. Daddy stroked his graying mustache and then took his glasses off and wiped them clean. When he replaced his glasses, he spoke again, There will be folks losing their homes here in Holy Oak, son. Some of these people are good friends of ours.

I don’t understand, Daddy. How can you lose your home?

He removed his glasses and wiped them again before he spoke. When people buy a house or a farm, mostly they don’t have enough money to buy it all at once. They borrow money at a bank and pay back the loan a little at a time over years and years. For lending them the money, the bank is allowed to collect a little more than it loaned in the first place. He replaced the glasses again. But sometimes banks get greedy. If they have loaned out more money than they have, they might have to have people pay back the loan faster than they first agreed to repay.

I felt confused, What if the people don’t have the money anymore, Daddy?

I could tell that that question was one that my daddy didn’t want to answer. He thought about it a long time. When he answered, I could barely hear what he said. Then that family will lose their home or farm to the bank. You see, son, this all started out as a way to make a little money off a lot of loans. Only now, the banks need their money to give back to other customers, and people may lose their farms or other property. And it isn’t just happening here in Holy Oak, it’s all over the country.

Daddy hesitated and then went on. Today I had to take some papers out to the Nathan farm. The bank needs their money back, so they are calling in the loan. That’s what it’s called when the bank has people pay back the loan faster than they first agreed to pay. The Nathan’s have thirty days to come up with the money or they will lose the farm and the bank will sell it for what they can get.

But, Daddy, the Nathan’s have lived on that farm a long time. How can anyone just make them leave? That isn’t fair. I think I must have been crying about then because I knew Mr. Nathan’s children. Amy was a few years younger than I was. She was a very good reader. Paul was my age; he could draw just about anything. Where would they have to go? Where would they live and what would they do? All Mr. Nathan knew was farming.

Well, they have thirty days, so maybe it will turn out ok. His smile didn’t convince me and did little to relieve the tightness in my gut.

Daddy, are we going to lose our home, too? Is the bank going to take our home, too? I held my breath as I waited for an answer I didn’t want to hear.

Daddy answered quickly, No. That won’t happen to us, son. The city owns this house outright. One of the benefits of my job is this house. As long as I’m sheriff here, we will have a place to live. I could see the muscles of his jaw clamp down hard, and he looked like he was trying to say something else, but couldn’t make the words fit right.

How come you had to take the papers to the Nathan’s, Daddy? How come the bank doesn’t take care of that? Why should you be in the middle of it? My voice was shaky.

Well, it’s part of my job, son. It’s my responsibility. The president of the bank, Mr. Meechum, asked me to go with him. He didn’t want any trouble.

But you think there will be some, don’t you? I asked.

He squeezed Ma’s hand, No telling’ how folks will act when you tell them they have to leave the only home they’ve ever known. People may not act like themselves. His jaw muscles clenched again. But you shouldn’t worry, son. These folks know it isn’t me takin’ their home. They know… Well, they know.

I didn’t know what to say. I mean how can you just take someone’s home and make them leave? What kind of man would do that?

There was fear and uncertainty hanging over everything in Holy Oak for the next week. Amy Nathan cried most every day in school and Paul didn’t say much of anything to anyone anymore. He just stared out the window at the blowing snow and watched the ice form on the windowsill. No one knew what to say to them. We spent a lot of time trying to pretend that the worst thing in their life wasn’t happening, and that it could never happen to any of us.

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The days after the death of my Daddy remain blurry to me. I am unable and mostly unwilling to bring details out of the quagmire of my memory. Stifled by my fear of facing it again, I guess. I do recall that I wanted and needed to be near Ma; she was all I had left. Being close to her was comforting, but when I would look into her eyes, I could see that she needed solace as much as I did. Any bit of self-composure I had managed was immediately gone, and we’d just hang on to each other and the tears would stream and the hurt would flow over us like a river. Again, the awful emptiness and the squeezing pain in my gut until I could barely breathe. My eyes burned and the cascade of tears just wouldn’t stop. I have no idea how many times that agony tore into my consciousness in the days and weeks after Daddy left us. Each time, I just became more aware that Daddy was gone; really gone. Regardless of his absence, I kept having images of talks we had and things we’d done together. I could recall the teaching sessions he worked into our everyday activities. He called them man-lessons; mostly his thoughts about how a good man would deal with an imagined or real situation. The first one I could remember started out with Daddy explaining how bad things were for us before we came to America. He drew a picture with his words that showed how hard life had been in England. Bad situation—make it better! was his answer.

It’s no sin to better yourself and your life, Ellis. he’d said, That’s what a man does for his family. You just have to find a way to do that and still be able to like the man in the mirror when you shave in the morning. Daddy was a good man. He was taken from us too soon. Bad situation—make it better!

When the image of the shotgun going off somehow crept past my defenses, I tried, at first, to deny that any of it was my fault, but then I’d remember another of Daddy’s man-lessons. The one about how a man took responsibility for his actions. If what he did turned out badly, it was on him to fix it if he could. The trouble was that I had no idea how I could fix this. No idea how to make it better. Yet, there were constant recurring images of daddy and the things we’d done together. To torment me or to help and comfort, I am not sure.

In the weeks after losing daddy, I strained to remember everything I could about things he’d said before. Maybe something he said would help us in this bad situation. We had to try to make it better. I remember Daddy told me many times about his lucky day. That’s what he called the day he saw the ad. It was in a week-old newspaper that someone had left behind in the barbershop. The ad read:

Wanted: small town sheriff; quiet town, good school; two bedroom house included for the right man; only experienced law enforcement officers need apply.

Chasing the dream, we moved again. In truth, Daddy had no experience in law enforcement, but desperate times demanded desperate actions. When he applied for the job, he claimed he had been the constable in a small village in England. His hope was that he would have proven his worth at the job long before inquiries from England would return. When he’d spoken to the men in town, he had an air of confidence that seemed to convince. He came out of the interview with his chest puffed out and proudly displayed his new badge. Other than misleading the people about his law enforcement experience, I had never known my father to do a dishonest thing in his life.

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Ellis looked down at the yellowed pages from his childhood journal. He recognized his childish scrawl of his early years, so different from his proud, confident hand now. He’d written those pages for a school assignment a year or two after he and his mother had moved to New York to stay with Uncle Jimmy and Aunt Adie. A lifetime ago.

Although the years had eased the anguish, the details of that day were still just as sharp in his mind as they had been the day they lowered his father into the cold ground in Holy Oak, Iowa. Flashes of Daddy and days of his presence would abruptly play before his eyes as they had done for years. Just like always, these unbidden vignettes became quickly overshadowed by the replay of those awful last minutes. Each time these memories unfolded before his eyes, the details seemed sharper and I could do nothing except watch the horror of it, and see the terror and fear in my father’s eyes until they glazed over, and he was gone again.

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The time before Rosa Baroldi entered his life was the unsmiling, gray time of his existence. The color and smiles were slow to return to the palette of his life. After Rosa entered the picture, smiles and color were added in wide, broad-brush strokes. The time after Rosa… what would they be like? Other than very alone.

Ellis had told Rosa of his early life in Holy Oak shortly before they had been married more than fifty years ago. In fact, she had read those early journal entries he’d used as a school assignment. It showed her how he had grown up and how tenuous and fragile were the bonds between a son and his father. He’d detailed the incident to her so she could see and feel the results of it on his young heart and mind. The foundation of his beliefs became obvious to her then, and she understood well about his belief of taking responsibility for one’s actions, and the importance of family. Of course, none of them could have known how this early event would weave and entwine itself into their later life together—she, Ellis and Benjamin.

Chapter 2

It was late. The rest of the house was dark and covered in sleep, but in the study, Ellis Ashton was awake. Sleep had not come to him for more than a few hours at a time for many weeks, but he didn’t really desire sleep right now. His thoughts were busy, and too focused to allow slumber to disrupt his concentration. He’d always been good at regimenting his time. A time to sleep… a time to work… a time for… well, whatever he needed to complete. That was his strength and although it had faltered over the past months, he tried hard to maintain his thoughts tonight.

He sat at the large oak desk, which was bare except for the lamp that illuminated the surface, and the cloth bound journal that lay open in front of him. In the crease of the open journal was the uncapped Mont Blanc fountain pen that Rosa had given to him many years before. He was seldom without it.

It represented the faith she had in him when he first opened his textile business. The pen had been an enormous extravagance. Money had not been plentiful and the success of his efforts was far from certain, but Rosa had explained that the president of a company as fine as Wilcott Textiles in Wilcott, North Carolina, should have a symbol of success.

You have to have confidence in yourself or your customers will find someone who does. She had smiled and kissed him gently and his initial concern about the cost disappeared. Since that time, he had used it to sign large contracts with local mills and even for international deals. Wilcott Textiles had been a grand success. Rosa had been right. She usually was.

Ellis pushed back from the desk and stood. He stretched his six-foot frame and slowly paced the shadows of the room, barely aware of the elegant fixtures that told of his success. Every corner of the room was familiar to Ellis. Many nights he had worked late and paced the room to place his thoughts into final form. As he reached the farthest corner of the room, he stopped, and the features of his rugged face gradually softened. Ellis made the decision. He turned and walked briskly back to the chair and lowered himself into the soft leather.

Ellis picked up the pen and began to write in the journal. He wrote several lines and then reread them. Satisfied, he placed a period at the end of the last line and blew gently to dry the ink. Capping the Mont Blanc, he set it aside, and thumbed back over the pages he’d written. He admired the elegant script. His handwriting had a practiced and regal appearance. It was not the scrawl of a man in a hurry, nor the shaky pen of a man who had reached his seventieth year and more, but rather the steady hand of a confident, successful man. That was the appearance that Ellis Ashton wanted to give in all of his business dealings, and it had served him well. But tonight, his writing filled him with heartache and sadness. He had been overwhelmed with indecision when he sat down at the desk many hours earlier. He had contemplated this decision for many days. Only now, when it had been penned and the ink had dried did he feel some of the burden lift. Yet, the pain would diminish only after he finished the task at hand.

The clock in the study chimed 2 AM and he began to feel the lateness of the hour. However, he wanted to read the journal one more time before stopping for the night. He opened it to the first page and began to read.

My dearest Rosa, it began.

Much has changed in my life in the past six months. Most of it has been painful since you left me. I have been so afraid and so alone. Craig is here, and of course, Ramsey is always around and has, as usual been a great friend and supporter. However, my dear Rosa, none of that has helped as I hoped it would. You