Guilt In Accession
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Guilt In Accession - Richard Mousseau
GUILT
in
ACCESSION
a
NOVEL
by
RICHARD MOUSSEAU
MOOSE HIDE BOOKS
imprint of
Moose Enterprise Publishing
PRINCE TOWNSHIP
ONTARIO, CANADA
cover illustration by Rick Mousseau
Guilt in Accession
by
Richard Mousseau
Copyright January 4, 2016
Published October 1, 2016
by
MOOSE HIDE BOOKS
imprint of
MOOSE ENTERPRISE PUBLISHING
684 WALLS ROAD
PRINCE TOWNSHIP
ONTARIO, CANADA
web site www.moosehidebooks.com
NO VENTURE UNATTAINABLE
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, NO PART OF THIS BOOK MAY BE RE-PRODUCED, THIS INCLUDES STORING IN RETRIEVAL SYSTEMS OR TRANSMITTED IN ANY FORM BY ELECTRONIC MEANS, MECHANICAL, PHOTOCOPYING, RECORDING OR OTHER, WITHOUT THE WRITTEN PERMISSION FROM THIS PUBLISHER.
THIS BOOK IS A WORK OF FICTION, NAMES, CHARACTERS, PLACES AND INCIDENTS ARE EITHER PRODUCTS OF THE AUTHOR’S IMAGINATION OR ARE USED FICTIOUISLY. ANY RESEMBLANCE TO ACTUAL EVENTS OR LOCALES OR PERSONS, LIVING OR DECEASED, IS ENTIRELY COINCIDENTAL.
CREATED IN CANADA
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Mousseau, Richard E., author
Guilt in accession / Richard Mousseau.
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-927393-39-0 (paperback).--ISBN 978-1-927393-40-6 (pdf)
I.Title.
PS8576.O977G85 2016C813’.54C2016-905873-5
C2016-905874-3
GUILT
in
ACCESSION
PROLOGUE
What the hell is Déjà vu, and why had the same dream unfolded several times in the past year? A cold sweat accompanied a haunting sensation when Ed’s body sprang up from the bed. Open eyes greeted complete darkness of the room. The subconscious mind in control of sleeping hours fought for possession against a waking consciousness. Within the dream it had seemed as if hours had passed preventing him from waking. His conscious mind a prisoner within the dream. He searched in vain for a way out, fearing to spend eternity in the altered reality. Ed could not distinguish between reality and fabricated dreams.
He was there on Roosevelt Street back in nineteen-forty-eight, five years before feeling the chill of autumn at his own birth in September, in the year of nineteen-fifty-three. Taking deep breaths and shivering a nauseated head did not alter guilt. Ed was there experiencing all events as if occurring yesterday. A conscious mind reluctantly fought accusations, tending to agree and accept the subconscious mind’s scenario. Like previous encounters with the recurring dream, Ed’s mind would deliberate throughout the day presenting arguments against the existence of Déjà vu.
A dream could not be Déjà vu. Dreams were dreams, fabricated by experiences, visions and thoughts acquired during waking hours. Sometimes dreams become short circuited and mix reality experiences with an active imagination. Sometimes nightmares result. That late night pork sandwich or raw cabbage is the activating substance that triggers haunting nightmares.
Ed could not understand why he could not shake off the dream, why it haunted the reality of consciousness. Life had been mundane up to the year twenty-thirteen. No guilty pretences, no criminal charges, only one speeding ticket in forty years. By no means was he a saint in his moral thinking, though life was uneventful, maybe even boring by someone else’s standards. An ex existed, though no current woman of interest and no children to be heir, and semi-retirement had turned Ed into a hermit of sorts. He was not shunning society, rather embracing a farming existence of raising farm animals that are more understanding creatures.
A sensation of repeating an event, an action or witnessing an event or action when awake is a determining factor for Déjà vu. If a subconscious thought is within another subconscious thought, then could a Déjà vu sensation occur? This was too much psychological mumbo-jumbo for a lay person to decipher.
Scratching fingers through a close trimmed beard to wake from slumber, Ed laid a thinning head of grey hair upon the pillow. Cool air entered through the open window bringing upon the air the fresh aroma of manure. Some may find the essence to be a foul odour. Ed relished in the freshness of nature and thoughts of morning chores vied for precedence against lingering snippets of the night’s dream. A shiver, as experienced by goose bumps was a remnant of how the dream seemed to be too real, too logical to be rebuffed or denounced to just being a bad dream.
Within the twilight zone of falling back to sleep where the subconscious mind dictates events, Ed’s conscious mind reminisced about growing up on Roosevelt Street. From a bird’s eye view the street appeared, the south section severed by a walking bridge over a creek, the north stretch ending with a curve before abutting the parallel Eden Street.
Eighteen years had lapsed since Ed had resided on the gravel street, the first eight years in a relative’s house near the curve end of the street then the remaining years at the family’s new house at the middle of the street’s length. Leaving memories of the neighbourhood in nineteen-ninety-five, Ed drove north and took the curve slowly. Eyes glanced toward the wooded area and meandering creek, a childhood playground for the countless neighbourhood kids. Yet, there was an aurora that encircled the wooded playground; sometimes gleeful, sombre, chilling and when the gloominess of a rainy day prevailed, Ed would pass by on the farthest shoulder to hold at bay the haunting mist rising from the woods.
ONE
Unlike the defining colours seen through digital cameras, cell phones and the multiple advances in technology, scenic views of a gravel street blended browns and greys imprinted on brown photographic film. A houseless street cut through second growth of mixed forest was labelled Roosevelt Street on the township plot plan. Staked lots of half acre size waited for survivors of the Second World War in nineteen-forty-six to take possession and build veterans homes. Fevered construction occupied the minds of men exhausting strength in avoidance of conjuring up dreams of war experiences. Families grew; a result of man’s indulgence in pleasure. Children born before the war wandered the street in search of adventure.
Tom, a blonde haired kid of six years was one of the first families to move into a skeleton home before winter set in during the end of nineteen-forty-six. Through the long winter, snow buried homes frozen in various stages of construction. Restless for adventure, Tom ventured up and down Roosevelt Street inspecting each and every bare bone structure. Only the north side curve at the end of the street remained void, neither stakes nor indications that houses would occupy the site.
Turning a head buried under a pulled down toque and thick wrapped scarf, Tom’s blue eyes brimmed with delight. On this street was a playground of wilderness holding what wonders beyond the tangle of chokecherry bushes? With a constant automatic brush of a back hand, Tom eliminated the gob of snot clinging to a frosted nose. A nasal cold lingered within the boy, a result of insufficient heat in the naked walled house.
Mother could not restrain an active, mischievous child while tending another two-year old and a nursing baby. Her voice often trailed unheeded by Tom exiting the home. ‘At least he is well dressed,’ Mother acknowledged when seeing Tom vanish through a slammed door. ‘That kid is accident prone and is a magnet for every cold, fever and childhood disease,’ Mother recalled stating to other mothers, yet always added, ‘He is a good boy, listens well, always does as he is told, well behaved.’
Glancing south along Roosevelt Street to the intersection where Balfour Street crossed, the constant stream of wood smoke could be seen rising from the home’s chimney. Morning had just begun, so Tom did not have to be home until noon to bring in firewood to feed the hot air boiler in the basement. There was plenty of time to pass through the bare chokecherry bushes and discover what was beyond.
Plodding through hip deep fluffy snow toward the bush line, Tom regretted the tedious journey. Relief arrived when breaking the bush barrier. Minimal snow depth remained beneath evergreen trees and naked birch and ash trees towering above fir branches laden with snow. Rabbit tracks forming a well used trail caught Tom’s inquisitiveness and hope to see the rabbit or find the rabbit’s den, he followed the trail. Dropped pellets were a sure sign that he was close, or though was the thought.
Near a depression the rabbit track suddenly vanished into a void. Tom peered over the embankment to discover a frozen creek and its’ meanderings endless in both directions. One rabbit print landed at the bottom before a patch of dark blue ice then one print on the other side. The dark patch of ice intrigued the six-year old’s inquisitiveness. Climbing down the embankment was a matter of rolling within the soft depth of snow. Landing with his face mirrored in the thick blueness wide eyes peered deep into the ice. Bewilderment was replaced with awe, for there captured in suspended animation a small brook trout was frozen in mid action. Small black eyes appeared lively; each fin in frozen action, and the tail fin was slightly to one side ready for an alternate swish. Yet the fish did not move, though Tom expected it to.
With chin resting on a hand and excess nose liquid dripping onto the ice, Tom lingered to study the inanimate fish. A mitten hand polished the ice surface until the friction of leather smoothed the surface to the quality reflection of a mirror. Winter had just begun and spring would not melt the ice until six months had passed when the sun was able to penetrate through the forest canopy. Thoughts wavered through Tom’s mind; ‘will the fish come back to life, how will it eat, is it frozen solid, maybe there is a pocket of warm water around it, how will it breath, where are its’ friends, it is all alone?’
Deep concern saddened Tom to the point where a tear formed in the corner of an eye. Only the sounds of light sniffles echoed in the hollow of the creek. Nature’s wonders moved emotions within the boy. Though feeling concern, what could he do for the trout, what . . . other than mourn for the small trapped creature?
Lingering with eyes fixated on the blue patch of ice, Tom let the morning pass. Sensing a hunger grumble in the stomach he reluctantly rose and turned, hesitant to leave. Knowing that wood for the furnace was needed, Tom promised himself and the small fish that a return would be made. A flustered head constantly turned toward the creek as Tom struggled up the embankment and to the snow packed road.
Fighting the cross winds from the northwest, spindly legs shuffled oversized boots through the snow. These high-top boots were warm and stuffed with old wool socks to accommodate Tom’s foot size. Hand-me-downs were a necessity. Cousin after cousin had used them and after Tom a younger brother would claim them. From a bent head, Tom’s eyes bobbed from one boot to the other until a toe moved a white stick protruding from the side bank.
Being a curious creature, of course he would stop, observe and begin to examine. First Tom leaned over then hunched down on bended knees. As eyes captured the imprint of black pads and small toenails, his mitten hand began to pull the stiff object from the bank. A rabbit’s foot grew into a leg, a fluffy tail, an elongated body and lastly a peaceful looking head with eyes sleeping. It was the smear of red beneath whiskers that concluded that the rabbit was dead.
Tom often watched Pa dispatch and skin snared rabbits. Though the Great War was over in nineteen-forty-five, food rations were scarce. Tom and family and extended family ate well. The whole family snared rabbits and even squirrels. Tom liked stir-fried rabbit, stuffed rabbit, rabbit stew, rabbit soup and rabbit jerky. With all of those rabbits one would expect that Tom would have a collection of lucky rabbits’ foot.
Pa had given Tom only one, stating that, ‘In times of tolerance every morsel of a rabbit would need to be consumed.’ The family was large a year ago, now it was just Ma, Pa and brother and sister. Tom tried to remember the last time they had eaten a rabbit. Tonight they would have rabbit, maybe a stir-fry and Tom would proudly be the benefactor.
Renewed with excitement legs quickly dragged flopping boots down the road. Imitating his father, Tom clutched both back legs in a hand to carry the stiff rabbit at his side. The elongated rabbit created a drag grove beside Tom’s drag-flop boot prints.
After clomping into the house and slamming the door against a blast of winter air, Tom pulled down the frozen wool scarf to revel a broad one-tooth-missing smile. With effort a tired arm raised the rabbit as high as his arm would reach. There he waited for Mother to turn with pleased pride for a son’s so successful in bringing home food.
To a child it is impossible to understand how a Mom can observe a situation; calculate pros and cons, the state of a child’s emotion and understanding, then weigh the benefits and disappointments of a child’s emotions, and then say the right words to suit the situation. Upon turning to see Tom and the rabbit carcass, Ma had observed, calculated and arrived at a solution in a matter of an eye blink.
What a catch, Tom,
Ma said, brimming with Motherly pride. That is a fine specimen.
I found it, my boot kicked it.
Tom extended the foot of guilt to emphasize accuracy. Could we have a stir-fry?
The hide would make a nice set of baby mitts,
Ma hinted, eyes continuing to smile, yet a twinge of a lip indicated something else. If the pelt has been left too long, if for example the rabbit has been dead too long, say weeks, then the hide would not be suitable.
Yeah, that’s right, Pa say’s a fresh hide is best, and needs curing.
Tom’s head turned to the rabbit and eyes noticed that the hide was not as pure as first observed. Undercuts exposed bare skin void of downy fur.
Do you know why we only eat fresh kills, animals butchered and cured for human consumption?
Twisting his head comically, Tom dug deep into thoughts and back as far as possible, back to when he was five and even four and a half. He had often asked why he could not remember being born, or when he crawled or first walked. Watching her son struggle, Ma resisted smiling too much, or help by giving answers. Tom needed to use examples