Silent World

By Coleen Mattingly Bay

Stanley is fired from his job with a reputable engineering firm in New York City under false pretense. His wife leaves him. He nearly freezes to death after jumping from a box car in the Wyoming winter and finds shelter in a cellar where he uses his ingenuity to survive while hiding. He discovers letters and journals and realizes his own marriage has been an empty shell.
He is arrested, jailed, and fined for unlawful entry and theft of the food he used for survival. The homeowner agrees to have him work on her farm to pay off his fine. He rebuilds his life in a new environment and fills his soul with love and satisfaction from hard work.
Because of his disappearance from New York, he is mistakenly declared dead. His ex-wife, believing she was a widow, remarries, complicating things when he is discovered to be alive.
Stanley is compelled to return to New York. Torn between two worlds on opposite sides of the country, he must decide between his life in New York and his life in Wyoming.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 27, 2018
• ISBN: 9781387699612

Book preview

Silent World

Silent World

By Coleen Mattingly Bay

Cover photography and design

© 2018 by Mindy Merrill

Blue Pine Press LLC

Brigham City, Utah

Copyright © 2018 by Coleen Mattingly Bay

All rights reserved.  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without the

permission of the publisher.

ISBN:  978-1-387-69961-2   e-Book

~Chapter One~

Stanley spotted a small house down the dirt road with steam spiraling out of the roof.  He hoped he could make it that far.  His stiff legs, almost frozen from the wind and snow while riding on the freight car, could barely move.  One more step, just one more step, he repeated in his mind, as he forced himself to keep going.  His right wrist throbbed from the fall when he had jumped from the train and his legs hadn’t held him.  Perhaps he should have waited until he was closer to a town to jump, but thinking he’d have a better chance of not being discovered, he had leaped out in the middle of nowhere …somewhere in Wyoming.  His stomach was past being empty and it no longer gnawed inside him.  He wouldn’t last much longer without food.  One more step.  One more step.

Hope gave him new strength when he saw a light in the house indicating someone was home.  Days and weeks had passed, he wasn’t sure how many, and he couldn’t be sure if it was still January—maybe February by now in the year 2000.  The daylight seemed to last longer, but he doubted it could be March.  He estimated it must be between five and seven o’clock by the deepening shadows after the sun had set below the mountains. 

Stumbling onto the porch, he pushed the button for the doorbell, wincing as pain pierced through his right wrist.  He waited for a minute and then pushed the doorbell again except he used his left hand this time.  When nobody answered the door, he knocked on the door with his left hand. 

Please answer the door, he whispered, but no one came.  He collapsed into the rocking chair on the porch.  He wondered who might find him here frozen to death in the morning.  What do they do with unidentifiable dead bodies?  Do they cremate them?  Oh, a fire right now sounded so glorious.  He closed his eyes and began to feel warmth creep up his legs and through his hands.  God must be hearing his plea for heat at last.  He remembered being told it felt like this when you are dying from hypothermia. 

I must stay awake and keep moving, he whispered.  His eyes didn’t want to open.  Tired.  So tired.  Forcing his left arm up to his eyes, he used his fingers to pull his eyes open.  The lashes tore away from his eyelids when he forced his frozen lid away from his lower lashes.

Stanley tried to get up out of the chair, but his body did not cooperate.  Trying a second time, he pushed with his left arm and rocked forward to give his body momentum.  He lifted himself up off the seat, but the weight of his body pulled him back into the rocking chair.  Scooting forward as far as he could on the seat of the chair, he leaned forward, rocked, and pushed with all the strength he could muster.  His body vaulted forward almost losing his balance and he staggered a few steps to get himself upright.

He hobbled down the stairs and willed his feet to move forward.  Perhaps there was an out building or a barn where he could get out of the wind and snow.  One more step.  One more step.

As he reached the side of the house, he noticed a rusty coal chute next to the chimney.  There was no padlock.  He reached down with his left hand and lifted the heavy metal door.  It was dark as pitch inside, but he felt warm air escape through the chute.  Without giving it a thought, he slid one leg through the hole and it dangled with no barriers.  Feeling nothing but the exterior wall, he slid the other leg into the hole and sat on the bottom of the chute.  He wiggled his butt enough to put more weight inside the hole than out and fell into the house, his arms following his body.  He let out a scream from the pain when he landed.  He sat crumpled on the floor and remained motionless expecting someone to respond to his outcry and discover his whereabouts. 

He listened to the silence, his heart pounding.  A drop of water fell on his hand.  He jerked, causing his wrist to throb and he realized his mistake.  Another drip, followed by two more, and then several.  He sat contemplating the possibilities of a leak in the ceiling.  He scooted on his butt a foot or two sideways in the cramped space to avoid being dripped on. 

The floor was concrete and smooth.  The space between the outside wall and whatever was right in front of him couldn’t be more than two feet.  He ran his left hand across the smooth metal wall in front of him and feeling the warmth, realized it was the side of a furnace.  Its installation, he assumed, was long after the old house had been built and must have replaced the coal furnace.  After his eyes adjusted to the blackness in the room, he noticed a tiny glow from the pilot light in the furnace.  Water dripped on his hand again.  This time he was able to focus enough to realize that the drips were coming from the ice in his thawing beard. 

He heard footsteps above him.  With great pain, he slid into the back corner of the room behind the furnace and waited.  Minutes passed; no one came. 

He pulled his right arm inside his shirt next to his body, tucked the ragged sleeve of his once-white oxford shirt through his front belt loop and tied it as best he could with his left hand.  He rolled his thin jacket up into a ball, and using it for a pillow, lay down.  The initial burn from thawing wracked him with pain so intense, he shook and clenched his teeth to keep from screaming out in agony.  The warmth and hum of the furnace began to lull him into a state of relaxation.  It had been days since he had been this warm—even longer since he’d had a good meal.  He fell into a deep sleep dreaming about a steaming bowl of soup.

April 19, 1972

Galvin placed his newborn daughter in Zanida’s arms.  They had decided to name the baby Sunny if it was a girl.  Zanida looked frail.  She had been in labor for thirty-two hours and was bleeding heavily.  The midwife said she was sorry she hadn’t insisted they go to the hospital.  Zanida was in serious danger now, but in no condition to move either. 

Unable to maintain consciousness, Zanida did not respond to the child in her arms.  The midwife told Galvin to take the baby and keep her warm while she attended to Zanida.

Galvin wrapped the baby in several blankets and rocked her to sleep in the living room. 

Hours passed before Galvin heard the midwife call out to him.  He rose from the rocking chair and went to the bedroom.  Zanida lay motionless under the sheets.  There were piles of towels soaked with blood on the floor beside the bed.  His beloved Zanida was gone. 

I did everything I could to stop the bleeding, the midwife said.  I’m so sorry.  She left the house and he never saw her again.

~Chapter Two~

Stanley’s moans of pain woke him up.  It took a few minutes of staring into the darkness to remember where he was and how he got there.  He lay still to see if anyone else had heard his groaning.  He heard the footsteps of someone above his head, but no voices.  He heard water turn on and off in a sink and a pot or pan clang. 

Biting his lip to keep himself from crying out in pain, he pushed himself up into a sitting position using his left hand.  He was fatigued, his right wrist was swollen and painful—he must have broken it when he fell.  He knew simple fractures usually healed in about six weeks—he wouldn’t die from it.  Lack of food, however, was a different story.  He had stayed hydrated by eating the snow and ice—the only benefit he could think of to the bitter cold weather.

When there didn’t seem to be any indication the person above him was aware he was intruding in their space, he got brave enough to walk around the small room, straining his eyes to see what was ahead of him in the darkness of the little room with no windows.  He inspected his surroundings.  Something brushed his face—he let out a gasp and jumped back, sending sharp pains through his wrist at the jerky movement of his body.  Concentrating on seeing what was close to his face, he noticed a string hanging from above him.  He tugged it with his left hand and the room was illuminated from the light bulb over his head.  He closed his eyes, as the brightness of the light caught him off guard.  He stood motionless, waiting for his eyes to adjust and listening to see if the footsteps above indicated things had changed.  The sounds coming from above gave him every reason to believe he was not about to be discovered.  Of course, the person upstairs wouldn’t know the light went on—how silly of him. 

There were shelves around the little room filled with jars of food!  There were jars full of peaches, pears, tomatoes, and pints full of green beans, carrots, potatoes, squash, and beets.  There was a big cavernous hole in the upper half of the wall—he calculated it was under the porch he had been on the previous night.  A bushel basket rested on its ledge.  He reached up with his left hand, wiped the cobwebs away, and tipped the basket toward him.  Several apples fell out of the basket, bounced off his chest and rolled onto the floor. 

Not waiting to discover anything else, he ate three apples before he remembered the last time he ate too fast and got sick.  He set the other apples on a shelf and decided to open a bottle of the green beans, and one of carrots.  He unscrewed the band and pried at the flat lid.  His grimy fingernails bent backward.  Going soft from lack of nutrition was his guess.

He searched the room for something he might use to pry off a lid.  Finding nothing, he decided to see what was on the other side of the door.  He pulled the string, turning the light off, and shuffled over to the door in the dark.  He felt for the knob and turned it.  His heart was beating so hard within him, he was sure anyone in near proximity could hear it thunder.  He inched the door open and peered into the darkness beyond.  He gave his eyes a minute to adjust to the dark, then opened the door further and tried to discern his environment. 

A rectangular-shaped thin bead of light in the floor above illuminated a wooden staircase leading up to what appeared to be a trap door.  On the other side of the stairs was another door.  He stepped over to the other door and opened it.  Nothing.  Pure blackness lay ahead.  He weighed his options.  Should he turn the light on in the furnace room to help him see?  Would the light shine up through the crack around the trap door and reveal his presence?  He needed food in the worst way.  He contemplated figuring out a way to crawl back out the coal chute and knock on the front door again.  Perhaps whoever was here would take pity on him and feed him.  Then again, they might take one look at him and threaten to shoot him.  He had to look frightening with his ragged clothes, long beard, and his filthy body. 

Escaping out through the coal chute would require something as tall as a ladder for him to stand on so he could crawl out without having to lift his body weight.  If there were any such thing available, it would be behind the mystery door to the black room.  If he stayed inside the house, he needed something to pry the jar lids off before he starved to death.  Either way, he would need to get outside to take care of his body elimination. 

Stanley listened for the location of footsteps above him and heard none.  Fear of being discovered was outweighed by his immediate needs.  He returned to the furnace room and pulled the string.  He waited, expecting to hear the trap door lift open.  Nothing. 

He trudged to the small room.  The diffused light from the furnace room revealed a string hanging from a light fixture in the room like the furnace room.  Careful to ease his steps across the unlevel floor to the string, waving his left arm in front of him as he felt the cobwebs on his face, he tugged and breathed a sigh of relief when light radiated from the bulb. 

Rocks and cement cascaded down the side of the small space he estimated to be about eight feet by eight feet.  Raw concrete had been poured without forms or troweled making the room ill-shaped and lopsided.   

A large dusty trunk with leather straps buckled in front rested against one wall.  Two wooden chairs--one with the back missing, the other missing a leg--a heap of books, and three large black plastic garbage bags bulging with their contents were against another wall.  Buried in the dust covering the floor, were several dead cockroaches.  Protein. 

Looking for something to pry the lid off a mason jar, he began to rummage through the garbage bags.  Blankets were in one and old clothing in another.  The third bag revealed scraps of fabric, fraying towels, and miscellaneous rags—all things his wife, Letha, would have discarded.

He sat on the trunk to think for a minute, his limbs trembling even as he rested.   He must devise a way to escape.  If he could gather enough strength, he could pull the trunk over to the coal chute and balance the chair with the missing back on top of it. 

He stood and tugged on the leather strap on the side of the trunk to test its weight.  The horrible scraping sound as it drug across the concrete floor caused him to stop before moving it more than an inch.  He listened for sounds from above and heard the purring of the furnace in the other room. 

Perhaps if he emptied the trunk, it would make less noise.  He fumbled with the buckle on the front of the trunk with his left hand.  As the buckle released, he noticed how pointed the tip was on the metal piece that pierced the leather strap.  He forced his shaking body to move back to the furnace room where he retrieved a bottle of green beans and one of carrots.  Using the tip of the buckle piece, he popped the seal off each bottle.  He drank the juices from each jar, and then pulled each bean and slice of carrot out with his filthy fingers and feasted until they were gone.  He relieved himself in one of the jars, screwed the lid on tight, and set it aside behind the trunk.

His urgency to escape now lessoned, he turned off all the lights, shut the doors, and crawled behind the furnace where he lay down to rest his weary body.  Sleep overcame him.

May 10, 1975

Galvin was perhaps a little less than adequate as a father to Sunny.  He had quit trying to get her to listen to him and understand him.  She always appeared to be in a world of her own.  She refused to look at him or respond to him when he called her name or spoke to her.  Yet she seemed to watch his every move as if she were making a study of him.  It unnerved him at times. 

She was three years old now.  Galvin had forgotten a pot of beans on the stove and they had boiled dry.  He was enthralled watching Sunny play with her doll when the smoke detector began to blare.  He nearly jumped out of his skin, but Sunny didn’t even flinch.  It dawned on him; she was deaf.

~Chapter Three~

There was no day and night—only sleep and wakefulness.  The voices coming from upstairs were the occasional TV news broadcasts.  The volume on the television was so loud Stanley could hear every word as if the announcer were standing in the same room with him.  New York was still suffering from financial recession.  Maybe Letha’s precious Raynard would get a taste of his own medicine. 

If for no other reason than boredom, he had resorted to inventorying the jars of food, and reading books from the pile in the funny shaped cement room to keep his mind active.  More interesting than the books were the photo albums, journals, and letters he found in the trunk, which was getting further away from the wall as he hid more jars behind it.  He had resorted to using some of the rags for toilet paper.  Some of the fraying towels had come in handy to wash his body. 

He had used the emergency release valve on the water heater to get clean water, and had tried to wash the best he could.  He used one of the black garbage bags for his dirty rags, and left the unused rags out on the floor hoping to seal up the bad odors.  With no soap or deodorant, he was surprised his body didn’t smell worse.  Perhaps it was because he ate no meat.  Lack of protein would also mean his wrist would not heal as fast.  Not sure how long it would take to heal enough to use it to pull his body weight up to the coal chute, he decided however long it took to feel better was how long he would stay in this dark abyss.    

One day he was sitting on a broken chair in the ill-shaped cement room reading letters from the trunk, when the squeaking sound of the trap door alerted him someone was coming.  He leaped up and pulled the string on the light fixture darkening the room.  The door to the room was ajar, but he didn’t dare move.  He held his breath.  There was nothing in this room to hide behind.  He stood motionless waiting for his imminent doom.

Someone entered the furnace room and turned on the light.  Through the opening in the door, he could see it was a woman.  From behind her he could see she had thin arms and wore her long blonde hair tied with a pale sky blue ribbon at the back of her neck.  She was dressed in jeans with narrow legs.  Nevertheless, the jeans were still loose.  And she wore a billowing light blue shirt.  He wondered if she might be pregnant or perhaps wearing a larger person’s clothing.  She disappeared from his view and he could hear her moving about in the other room.

She walked over to the basket of apples and he was able to get a glimpse of her from the side.  She didn’t appear to be pregnant, or at least not in the later stages of pregnancy.  Her face looked familiar.  He guessed her to be in her thirties.  She stared in the half-empty basket for a long minute. 

Perhaps he shouldn’t have eaten so many apples.  He tried to remember if he had left any cores out where she could see them.  He had set them in the back corner behind the furnace