St. Croix: the novel

By William A. Wright and Dale Ann Edmiston

Through sheer grit, Jim Fisher rose from scrapyard worker to controlling the electrical grid of Pittstown. Endless shifts restoring power after storms and keeping utility workers safe cost him his family and home. The stress of several near-death accidents pushes him to uproot and fly to paradise to pursue the life of an artist. Developing diver

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brave Knight Writers
• Release date: Sep 7, 2020
• ISBN: 9781735752211

Book preview

St. Croix

Brave Knight Writers

St. Croix

the novel

William A. Wright

Copyright 2020

Wright & Edmiston

All rights Reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-7357522-0-4

ISBN (e-book): 978-1-7357522-1-1

Cover photo by William A. Wright

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and editor.

Other books by William A. Wright

Havasupai, the novel

Jan Sady and Linda Turner,

Thank you for your advice and encouragement.

Your friendship is invaluable.

For the unborn

Editor: Dale Ann Edmiston

This is a work of fiction.

Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

ONE

The stench of dead fish is overwhelming. I crack one eye open to find myself face down on a bit of sand, a maggot-covered fish staring at me. The trash rolls as a brown creature moves beneath. I can’t tell if it’s a rat or a mongoose—I don’t know what difference it makes. My sunburnt flesh would appeal to either. I should chase away the flies feasting on me. I try to move but fail. The sound of trash crackling nearby alerts me of a human presence. A rescue party must be searching for victims. Assessing hurricane damage will be a priority today. Thank God.

 I spot a ragged tennis shoe on a sockless foot inches from my face as a hand pats my backside. He’s robbing me of the little cash I possess—and my credit card. Wait. My identity. I feel the tug on my pocket, and the figure resumes wading along the shore. The bright light shining through my eyelids goes dark.

Time passes; the sun trudges along above me. My thirst is maddening. Vague thoughts skitter across my mind and vaporize into the heat. I thought I was coming to St. Croix to start fresh. I hate to leave my friends, old and new. Will anyone miss me? Was I nuts to begin with, or was it only crazy to think I could ever love again? What happens to… There’s nudging at my side. Something gentle caresses my head wound as the flies move to my ears. My eye opens to a view of four hairy legs between the dead fish and me. It’s Storm. I reach toward him as he whimpers, then drops beside me. Dog breath delivered at close range replaces the dead fish stench. I’m just glad he’s here. His snout slips under my shoulder to lift me. He wants me to move. Storm’s right. Gather the will to live, get to where someone can help me.

Mustering every bit of strength I can find, I hoist myself to my knees. After a moment, I lurch to my feet. Swaying, I gather my equilibrium before taking a tentative step. Storm leads the way as I ascend the bank away from the beach. The gulls screech at us as we attain solid ground.

A police car is blocking the street, no doubt to advertise the presence of law enforcement and prevent looting. The officer positioned near it motions me toward the church. I drag myself in that direction, Storm stoically keeping pace. A crowd has formed near the church entrance, with everyone talking at once. I am swept along toward the cool interior, Storm bumping into my calves at every step. We are funneled toward a long row of tables with people wearing neon vests and clutching clipboards on one side, chairs lining the other. I plop down at the first open seat. Storm leans against the chair. Drained from the effort to get here, I lay my head on the table. A voice across the table from me queries, Name?

I lift my head and try to focus, leaning on my elbows. Jim Fisher.

The woman writes while leaning away from me. Do you have I.D?

My wallet was stolen out of my pocket this morning. It had everything in it.

She scoots her chair back; I’m not sure if it’s my odor or my appearance bothering her. Is there a local who can vouch for you?

Maurice, the artist, and his wife Pearl. There’s also the taxi driver, Rudsel.

She sighs. Where are you from?

Pittstown. I left there several weeks ago. It feels like a lifetime, though.

TWO

I negotiate through one of the worst neighborhoods in Pittstown. Not the place to be at this hour—but necessary to reach the electric utility’s control room, where I work to keep everyone’s lights on. Two large raindrops hit my windshield, a dozen, a hundred—then sheets of rain course the glass as I switch on my wipers. A flash of lightning followed by a streetlight winking out warns me the night shift operations will be challenging. The stress of power outages reinforces a desire to find a different way to earn a living. I seem to exist only to drive myself back and forth to System. I’m not sure why I need a steady income any longer. As I exit the main road, I maintain speed onto a secondary street. The flashing red of a traffic light breaks through my reverie.  

My foot crushes the brake pedal, instigating a silent slide on the greased street. My hands clamp to the wheel as a car enters the intersection from the right, sliding into my path. I close my eyes, whisper a brief prayer, and hold my breath.

The horrid sensation of uncontrolled motion ceases, with no sound of crunching metal. Eyes squeezed shut, I breathe. Is it over? I open one eye, then the other. My heart pounds as I take in the fact that another vehicle sits inches away from mine. Guilt overwhelms me as I imagine other possibilities.

A figure emerges from the passenger door with arms flailing in the pouring rain. You almost killed us both! Are you drunk? Are you? I’m…

Jumping out to meet her, I motion for her to settle down, but I only seem to infuriate her all the more. 

I’m calling the cops—I want a cop here—now!  she looks around, but the street is empty. 

Lady, it’s all right. Nobody got hurt. I’m sorry, I’m running late. I accept the blame.

Is that what this is all about? Late? And don’t call me lady! she grunts her frustration as she charges me—fists clenched.

Grabbing her wrists, I avoid getting whacked.

Calm down, please! I’m not drunk! Honest, I work long hours. I must have been daydreaming. I’m sorry.

Her arms go limp in my hands, so I release her. Rainwater runs down her twisted braids, into her face. Even in this situation, I am struck by her fine features. Her skin is the shade of coffee with cream, her eyes are a beautiful dark green, her nose is perfect, her jawline is strong...

Hey! That hurt. Pain, lots of pain radiates from my shin, the kick so quick I didn’t see it coming. 

A knot is already forming on my shin. Listen, this is a rough neighborhood. We can’t stand around here. I’ll give you my number, call me. I’ll make restitution for any damage. Just tell me what I can do.

Her face says it all. If looks could kill, my pale, water-soaked body would be sprawled out right here, her tire tracks up my spine. She stomps and splashes back to the passenger side of her car and slides across the seat. The awful sound of an over-torqued engine drowns out the pounding rain. She speeds backward, then hits drive, tires spinning. Her taillights and their reflection disappear into the shiny black city street.

Even if I’m late, I need to gather my composure. Safety is the number one priority. My boss touts this and then schedules everyone endless hours. That woman was right. I might as well be a drunk driver, driving in this fatigued state. I pull my truck to the curb to collect my thoughts before moving on. My eyes drop to the odometer. Three hundred and forty thousand miles… a lot of time spent in this tired vehicle. At sixty miles an hour equals—wow, over five thousand hours of driving time. There is no meter to register how many hours slept on this seat. A blinding headache grips me as I think back. I had been heading home after a double shift—not really a home, just an empty house — when I first sensed my eyes trying to close. After driving so many miles every day, I realize when it’s time to pull over before that kill switch shuts down the brain, sending me into the oncoming lane. It hits me—I had pulled over six hours ago, another day without making it to a real bed, without making it home. It would have been nice to get into some fresh clothes, shower, and pack a lunch. The big old house itself depresses me. Broken dreams reside there. By the time I bought it, the house had suffered from years of neglect. It needed rewired, re-plumbed, a new roof, plaster patched, and paint. Mostly it needed love. I tried everything.

The only furnishings left now are my bed and a kitchen table and one chair. She also left me a plate, a cup and one setting of flatware. I’d be better off in an apartment closer to the city. The house seems haunted. When I sit there alone, I swear I can hear the laughter of a child or the tapping of my dearly departed dog’s toenails on the hardwood floors. Sometimes it’s the voices of angry adults. My ex-wife is handling the sale. When it sells, I’m starting a new life. 

I restart my engine. The few trees along the street stretch their limbs out, shaking their leaves. Grandpa said when the trees do that they are begging for rain and God feeds the beggars. Ominous clouds drift overhead carrying their contribution. Stiff joints offer another verification of the approaching storm. I step out of the truck for a moment to stretch. The air is sweet, the breeze cool as it sweeps in from the west. Clouds roll and darken as the foreboding western horizon delivers a crack of thunder. Thunder is the voice of God, telling humans to remain humble, as their works are fallible and existence frail. I will be lucky to get shift turnover from the guys in the control room before the full force of the storm hits.

I ease away from the curb. My shakiness from adrenaline subsides. A man-made skyline of high-rise buildings appears about a mile out from the city. The structures rise from the river valleys, framed by the darkened sky beyond the hills. A lightning bolt traces above the tree line. Coffee will get me through the shift. After a lifetime of pushing beyond limits, I feel confident that I will rise to the demands the night will require.

Hey Ben. I greet the security guard at the gate.

 Good evening, Mr. Fisher. Looks like a rough night for you guys. 

  It’s starting off that way.

The untamed electrical forces creating the flashes in the sky fascinate me. Although it’s an exhibit of uncontrolled energy, even it must conform to natural laws, not to man.

I fumble for my access card as I hurry toward the security door. I swipe the card, but it doesn’t produce the click of a released lock, so I swipe it again and again. Every time it rains, the computer pukes. I can’t believe it. Another thought creeps into my head. Maybe a higher power is sending me a message.

Nonsense. I dash around the corner of the building and grab the emergency phone to the control room. It rings as I reflect on the insanity of it all. I can’t get in, even though I run the place. The Operator’s manual states that System controls a phenomenon, electricity. The other side of the phenomenon is that as power flows out, money flows in. Controlling a section of the largest integrated machine on the planet is my job. I take control of a force that can rip across the sky, melting whoever crosses its path. Tonight’s work will involve responding to emergencies caused by the storm. Millions of dollars and thousands of lives will be at risk. High-level corporate customers expect instant answers. Tonight’s plans will be fired from the hip. A car might hit a pole, leaving its occupant surrounded by arcing power lines. Trees will fall, ripping down heavy power lines like threads of fine silk. I’ve seen it, done it all so many times before, but each time offers the potential for death. Lawsuits will probably follow tonight’s performance. 

System Operation.

Hey, it’s me—Jim. My card isn't working.

Hey Jim, got ya, I’ll hit the button.

Heart pounding to the rhythm of my feet, I run down the hallway leading to the control room. The large Safety First sign glares at me from above the door. The first essential piece of equipment I encounter is a commercial grade coffee maker. I stop long enough to fill a mug and sip the magic liquid as a co-worker greets me.

’ey, Jimmie, what happened to you? You’re soaked. 

Hey, Louie, long story, no time.  

Man, you look terrible. What have you been doin’ to yourself?

Workin’, just workin’.

 Louie shrugs. We’re all doin’ that. These double shifts are goin’ to kill us.

Or somebody else, I had a close one tonight. I came way too close to hurting a woman. The drive, these hours—it’s all too much.

Louie eyes me. You’re shaking. Better get out of those wet clothes. I think you’re in for a rough shift. That memo you sent, Jim—there have been some high-level meetings. You better watch your back."

Everything in it was true. Guess what? I don’t care anymore. Someone’s gonna get hurt.

No, Jim, the trouble is you care. That’s what’s eating you. 

My heart races. I’m not the one who cut jobs around here. We can’t run scheduled work like it’s a storm. My face burns thinking about the incident at the intersection, the beautiful woman, and my throbbing shin. It’s this place that caused that near miss… No. It was me. I choose to work here. I’ll take responsibility. I need to change the subject before I have a panic attack. Hey, Louie, did you ever get your credit mess straightened out?

He slumps. No. I’ve been working on that for three months. I can’t do anything but wait for the credit bureau to investigate.

Did they ever catch the people who’ve been using your name?

I wonder if they’re even looking for them. I’ve got bad loans in states I’ve never even been in. It’s a mess.

I balance my coffee with both hands while I make my way from the break room. The System Control Room appears to be the bridge of a starship. The system map of our entire control area covers the arching seventy foot front wall. It represents miles of cables and wires, thousands of circuit breakers, switches, transformers, capacitors, and reactors. A system operator must have every bit committed to memory.

Two system operators sit at consoles that mimic the pattern of the wall. About fifteen feet back from the wall, each operator monitors real-time data through five CRT screens. With the click of a mouse, breakers miles from the control room manipulate energy to power the steel mills, sewage plants, water pumping stations, office buildings and hospitals. Misdirected, this same energy can cause death and destruction, enough energy to kill Godzilla a hundred times. Tonight, Godzilla may kill us. I approach the System console center stage. 

What position am I in? I ask.

Ed spins in his chair. You’re Log, Tony’s on with you. You’re also wet. 

Tell me what I don’t know. 

The operator assigned to Log documents every action that occurs during the shift. With a storm approaching, this can be a daunting task. Even if the storm only lasts an hour, it will probably take me the next fifteen hours to sort through the alarm pages, turning it into a logical pattern of events while answering phone calls, operating breakers, and providing safety margins for the restoration crews. The logs are used in insurance claims as legal documents. Besides the control actions of the operators, automatic restoration devices are triggered. I’ll log it all.

Well, give it to me. I’m ready. My eyes focus on the map board.

Ed continues, Well study good, because we’ll need every ounce of cool you got tonight, partner. As bad as the weather has been, the real storm is yet to come.

THREE

Turn over begins. Operator speak is short and direct. I repeat the information back, then it’s corrected or accepted. Ed picks up his laser pen, pointing toward the wall map. I detect several conditions on the board, new since my previous shift. I look to each station he mentions. The element I don’t know at this point is the movement of the outside operators. It’s critical that I know where my resources are. Closed circuits mean electricity is flowing. When electricity flows, money flows. The game is to open circuits, stopping the flow of electricity—only as long as necessary for repair crews to do their work.

I could have killed her. She was gorgeous—nothing to do with the fact that I could have killed her. 

Jim, pay attention. You O.K.?

Yes, go ahead. 

We held over all the daylight outside operators for the storm.

Yeah, go ahead. 

Turn over continues. Got it?

I repeat it all back. Go ahead—get out of here. I reply. This is the same mental state I was in before the near miss at the intersection. What if I make another mistake? 

No sooner do we resolve one call, the phone rings again. The phone has forty buttons on the console that light when they ring, but there is also a page button that can move through nine layers of the forty buttons. A call comes in on the radio from the western district. The radio is a great safety net because all the crews can hear it. They need to know what lines will be energized. 

Ed salutes me. Good luck tonight.

I’ll see you in the morning. Don’t be late. A truck seat awaits me. I’ll have this storm all written up for you. Now, either you leave or I’m leaving.

See you, Jim. Pace yourself.

Right.  

I drop into my seat, answering calls while perusing paperwork. I start paging through the interactive computer screens that show all of our substations. Please, I just want to get through this shift without anyone getting hurt. Reaching in my pocket I pull out a lead toy soldier, a knight, and place it on my console. 

An alarm sounds in the western D.O.C. console. It’s here, the storm has arrived on the western front. I glance over at my alarm screen just in time to see it begin to fill up. I shout out the first couple of alarms that come in. The screen rolls faster than we can read.  

A long string of intense storm cells line up from our northern to our southern control area, rolling steadily eastward from Ohio. The strong cells are indicated by bright red shading, deep yellow fills in between—indicating heavy rain and wind.

It looks like it will blow through quickly. It’s going to be powerful, though, I speculate. 

Tony adds, Maybe it will do the ‘Pittstown split’, it’s possible we might get a free lunch. 

No, not the way this looks.

The Pittstown split is a strange phenomenon we see occasionally. We watch storms cross the plains then split as they cross the state line. They divide into northeast and southeast directions. These storms are wonderful for system operators because the company buys a catered meal in anticipation of 12 to 24-hour shifts. When the storm doesn’t hit, we’ve got a free lunch. So once in a while there is a free lunch for a working guy—corporate welfare.    

Hey Jim, look, they gather for the feast, Tony comments.

Toward the rear of the control room, I see the storm team setting up their folding tables. Supposedly they are here to help the distribution operators respond to customer complaints.

The room fills with chatter and laughter from these upper management responders. Two other factors detract from the presence of these carpetbaggers. They jump into the food line first, and they second-guess the operators’ decisions. It’s easier to decide after the fact than it is while under fire. 

Hey Jim! We’re going to get our butts kicked, ‘ol buddy.  

Thank God it’s Tony on shift with me tonight. He has a memory like a five hundred giga-byte processor.

The Western D.O.C. operator reports on certain circuit statuses that he is aware of. We start to fall into a rhythm. The chatter in the back of the room intensifies. Breakers go through their paces, opening on high current then closing to check if the fault cleared. If the breaker detects high current a second time, it locks out. Eighty percent are re-closing as they should.  

The storm crosses the System like a wave. The sequence-of-events printer chatters to my right, as I pick out the most significant alarms.     

The wind is probably swinging electrical phases on the lines into each other momentarily or tree branches are brushing against the lines. The ones that lock out get a manual try from Tony or me, unless we have a report of what the trouble is.

Jim, A voice shouts from behind my back. A tree took wires down on circuit 22354. Is it open?

No.

OPEN 22354 immediately—the police called in with wires on a car.

Circuit 22354 coming open.  I click the mouse with my cursor on a breaker. Alarms ring as I dump customers. Opening a breaker is less gut-wrenching than closing one.  

A loud crack of static sounds on the radio—lightning hitting the system, generating radio frequency. Rumbling can be heard through the ceiling and walls of the control room.

That was a hit on D.I. I shout, flipping the screen to see a green target light up on every breaker on the number six-network bus as the alarm page begins to roll with alarms. Green means open. Red means closed.

Bus differential at D.I., number six network. That dumps the #1 bank at NorthEast Surgical Hospital, North Side Schools Commissary, and St. Mary Hospital’s #2 bank.

The alarms continue to sound as the storm crosses the system. The western alarms quiet down as the central district’s alarms pick up momentum. It’s easy to envision exactly where the storm is, based solely on the alarm page. At least it’s sweeping through, not sitting on us hour after hour.

Jim, Western Medical is down, Tony shouts.

I saw that. I hope their generator kicked in. We can’t provide an alternate feed.

He adds, Central Sewage Pump just shut down.

I’ll pick them up with circuit 22846.

Good call, Jimbo. 

The east is already in an abnormal condition due to maintenance. The central alarms quiet as the eastern alarms start to chatter. Dryburgh will be the last station to take a hit. I cross my fingers, but then pull out the big guns by saying a little prayer. Tony and I look at each other, rolling our eyes. It’s going to be a long sixteen hours.How come when these alarms go off, I start to salivate? Tony asks.

We’re just like Pavlov’s dogs. Since they started having the storms catered, we’ve become conditioned to salivate at alarm sounds.

Tony shrugs. I think the romance is gone from this job. Don’t ask me why.

The noise level from the back of the room has further intensified. Phones are ringing all over the control room. We have pumping stations, hospitals, factories, and shopping malls all out of power. 

Z-74’s open at Dryburgh, Jim.

That’s bad.

Tony barks, It didn’t re-close, I’m going to give it a shot.

Wait!

Too late, Buddy.

Radio frequency squelches across the radio as a high voltage transient occurs. The alarm screen begins to roll as I change my screen to the Dryburgh single line. Every breaker on the number two 138kv BUS is green.

BUS differential at Dryburgh. Number 2 138kv Bus, guys. We just lost the Wilmington/Roanoke load block. We need to back off the power station. We lost too much load. We’re going to lose the generators if we don’t back them off.

I’ll call Houston control, Tony shouts.

No, We’ll call direct to the stations. We’ll talk to Houston when we have time. I already hit the station speed dial. Well, Ed forgot to mention that breaker at turnover, it says in the log not to close it if it opens, we just blew a million-dollar breaker.

I did Jim, not you.

We did, we’re a team.

If our local system is going into a major malfunction, we need to isolate it from the remainder of the grid. All of the power companies in the eastern United States are tied together, creating the largest integrated machine in the world.  

Should we think about isolating the system by opening our tie to the interconnection? 

No, let’s wait it out to see how fast generation comes down.

Tony turns to the Eastern D.O.C. operator. How about doing a group dump of all the capacitors on the eastern distribution circuits? We need to lower the voltage.

Hey, a shrill voice echoes from the rear of the room, cutting me like a knife.

Just shut up, I whisper.

Hey. What’s going on up there? the voice is closer, ever more despicable.

Looking over my shoulder is Dan Whitten. He was in charge of the room the first seven years I was here. He single-handedly did more to undermine our jobs than anyone, deliberately causing chaos so he could become the only one able to sort it out. Unfortunately for everyone he also has a genius I.Q.

Hey, Jim. Get those remote breakers closed. Pick up the feeds back into Dryburgh.

We have people at Dryburgh. I want a report first. I refuse to operate anything until I get a report.

Jim, we have people out of power. I believe in hitting things. Close the freakin’ breakers.

Dan is only here because of the storm, a technical adviser.

Jim. You have to start switching like you ride that Harley of yours. Pretend you’re going into a fast turn.

He knows nothing about how I ride. Forget you, Dan. Wrecking a couple of times taught me to ride more gently. Switching involves lives of other people. I can wait for an all-clear call from Dryburgh.

Dan shoulders me out of the way and grabs the mouse. You better shift gears, he says as he closes the Dryburgh breakers. He turns to me with a satisfied grin as I stare at the screen in horror. The Dryburgh breakers have blown up.

The phone rings. Tony listens to the voice on the other end of the line.

The construction crane touched the 138. Several men are injured or dead. Ambulances are on the way.

I start clearing breakers as Dan moves back to the rear of the room and collapses into a chair. The hotline to the CEO is activated. A chill runs the length of my spine. I hate that jerk.

Jim, the company, and safety investigators will deal with Dan. We still need to operate the system.

I lower myself back into the controls. The storm fades away. The alarms grow quiet. Tens of thousands are without power. Trees have fallen on power lines across the system. I begin to sort through the logic of every operation to determine exactly when each device functioned. Reports need to be defined down to the second. Monday morning quarterbacks will scrutinize everything for accuracy.  

Tony and I begin dispatching our resources to the most critical locations using the radio so that our operators’ locations will be transparent to the entire room. The helpers in the rear of the control room head to an adjacent conference room, beginning their feast. The hours pass as we energize lines cleared of debris. At some point Dan is led away for questioning.

It is six thirty in the morning when I stagger out to my truck. Sitting behind the wheel, I can’t find the capacity to turn the key. Tony and I will be cleared of wrongdoing with the blown breaker, but Dan... My last thought before I lay down on the seat is that my life has got to change or it will surely end.

FOUR

Tapping, like valves in an old V-8, loud tapping in some distant dimension. I scan the hallway looking for the source. It seems to be on a window. The tapping grows louder, increasing my frustrations. Hallways that go on forever, walls distorted, proportion lost, no doors or windows to be found and the tapping continues while I find only other hallways. The faster I run the smaller I become, until I disappear. Fear snaps me out of my dream, while the God-awful tapping continues. 

To my left I see college ring wrapped around a sausage-size finger tapping on the driver’s side window of my truck. It’s George Danisek, Vice President of Operations, pounding on my window. My hand reaches for the crank to open it.

Are you alright? Danisek asks.

Sure, I was just too tired to drive. I guess I dozed off.

You’re not on the clock, are you?

Panic strikes me. What day—I mean time is it?

It’s Tuesday, 0700.      

Then, no. I finished at 0630.

Quite a storm last night.

Yeah, but we had ninety percent picked up when I left.

Good. Well, if you’re off the clock, you need to leave the property. Our insurance doesn’t cover you if something happens. Oh, off the record—that was a troublesome email you sent, better watch your step.

Threats don’t sit well with me, but I’m too tired for a good comeback. My blood boils as Danisek struts away. College football put him where he is. He’s fresh from the gym this morning. With little idea what we do in the Control Room, he fills his day by making people uncomfortable, threatening their jobs. George is good at what he does.

I fire up my old truck, and escape through the asylum gate, waving to the guard. Somewhere outside this fence there is life, but drudgery robs passion. Up the side street I pass a brick church that is eighty years older than the overpass bridge that arches above its roof, sealing the building off from the light of day. The church is a fetish club now, patrons in strange costumes caught in the headlights crossing the street on Friday nights, a Mardi gras. This morning it just looks like a tired house of worship.

Stopping at a traffic light, I check to see if my door is locked. The trash-lined street seems quiet. Two homeless men squat propped against the wall of the corner store, holding bottles wrapped in twisted brown bags. One of them sits in a puddle of something. A strange sense of kinship overtakes me. Looking at the storefront window, I see my reflection sandwiched between my kinsmen. I’m one of them. I’m in the vicinity of my near-miss. An instant can change everything.

Every person is the pilot of his own vessel. Some pilot a yacht through oceanic swells while others canoe swift streams. My mantra is, never let go the tiller— so many hidden rocks. Never set out to drift. A true captain charts his destiny. An excellent captain follows his charts. That is where my kinship with these poor fellows roosts. Not in what we’ve done, but in what we failed to do.     

Plywood covers many windows. Abandoned cars litter what little yards there are. This neighborhood is a living monument to a failed society. Decaying government projects intermingle with dilapidated mansions from the last century. When environmental laws closed the local mills, the pride in this neighborhood died. Everywhere I look, I see work that needs done.   

Leaving the desolation behind, I shoot onto the interstate entrance ramp. The landscape evolves into refreshing green grass trimmed with the ornamental shrubs of the suburbs. With the window open, I extend my arm into the cool air, playing with the force of the wind. The game helps to keep me awake. I try flexing my facial muscles, then try opening my eyes to an exaggerated state and then relaxing.

Mom’s probably been awake for an hour; calling her might help me stay alert. She lives ninety minutes away, which makes visiting difficult. Several times I tried to talk them into moving closer when my father was still alive. Speed dialing connects me. It’s been six months since my father died. I have a question for her, one that has tortured me these six months. 

Hello?

Hi Mom, it’s Jim.

On your way home or going in?

It’s her standard question.

I’m on my way home. I worked a double last night.

Oh, my, you work too much. It’s a good thing you don’t work hard.

Her comment cuts straight to my heart. She’s says that every time we talk.

It was a long night, Mom.  

Have you been mad at me? I haven’t heard from you in so long that I thought you were mad at me.

I’ve worked several doubles in a row. Have you been mad at me? I respond, as my irritation builds.

Why would you say that? Why would I be mad at you?

Well, you haven’t called me in years. I call you at least once a week. I called you four days ago, Mom. Why would you ask if I’m mad at you?

I was just asking you a simple question. I’m old.

I breathe. No, I’m not mad at anyone.

You’re mad at your brother.

He’s mad at me, Mom. 

Oh, that’s ridiculous. It would have made your father happy if you would have apologized, God rest his soul. Your brother works hard, you need to make allowances for his situation.

Get the conversation on track. I desperately want the answer to my question. 

Mom, I want to ask you a question that has been on my mind for months.

He told me you never call him.

Mother, listen to me. Forget that stuff. I need an answer.

You need an answer? Well, he told me he has tried to call you several times, but you won’t answer. You know, you’re so hard to reach.

Enough. Please.

Oh, my.

Well, this isn’t easy. I wanted to wait because losing Dad was hard enough. I didn’t want other issues to cause hard feelings.

Her frailty isn’t lost on me. During all my adult years, I was not one to run to my parents with my troubles. This question has cracked my façade. She may be the only one who can answer it. It may be too late, her dementia advances daily. Fear of living with a curse drives me to ask. Living life without understanding is unimaginable. Her mind is slipping, yet she’s my only hope. 

What are you talking about? What issues?

Well, first off I want to make it clear, it’s not about the money. You and Dad made Lisa executrix of Dad’s estate.

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