Tractor Tales

By Darrel O. Turner

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 14, 2007
• ISBN: 9781450069540

Darrel O. Turner

About the author: Darrell O. Turner was born in Washington State. He served with the 36th Combat Engineer Regiment during World War II. The unit fought in H-Hour invasions of North Africa, Sicily, Anzio, Salerno, and France and served as combat engineers with the U.S. 3rd, 5th and 7th Armies. Educated at Georgetown University, University of Washington and Washington State University, he served thirty-two years as a soil scientist on the faculty of WSU. After retirement from WSU he was elected to six terms as President of Washington State Farm Bureau, and for twelve years was a board member of a large insurance company. He presently heads a family farm partnership operating nearly 1,000 acres in northwest Washington.

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Copyright © 2007 by Darrell O. Turner.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2006905956

ISBN: Hardcover 978-1-4257-2411-5

Softcover 978-1-4257-2410-8

Ebook 978-1-4500-6954-0

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

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 any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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CONTENTS

TO THE READER

THE HAPPENING

HOMER HARDLUK

THEY DISAPPEARED MY WIFE

THE SHACK

THE PROFESSORS

(PROLOGUE) THING

THING

EPILOGUE

WYGUI

MY SEVERAL LIVES

TARHEELS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

TO THE READER

I live in a valley deep in the Cascade Mountains of northwest Washington State; my family and I farm nearly 1,000 acres of the valley. Other family members tend cattle, plow fields, plant corn and repair fences; I do much of the forage harvest work.

Each field is harvested, on average, three times each season. A normal hay harvest requires: Mowing, tedding, raking and baling—four trips over each acre. I spend many hours guiding a tractor back and forth across a field.

What can one do other than steer the tractor? Well, one can think. My mind runs a broad spectrum of thoughts as I drive to and fro. Some of these notions are rather bizarre and some tales are real happenings.

It is sometimes difficult to separate fact from fiction so I’ll give the reader an assist: The Professors and Tarheels are accounts of real events—other sections are more or less factual—the degree of reality is for the reader to determine.

THE HAPPENING

I was drifting down the road; my thoughts were a tangled mess. What I should do next was beyond my present scope of reasoning. SR 932 has many curves, narrow lanes and few straight stretches. Traffic was light, as most people prefer Interstate 516 a few miles to the east. A recent encounter with IRS left me disconsolate and unnerved, the scenery was meaningless to my muddled brain as I passed by fields and forest. A flock of starlings erupting from a nearby pasture created a dense cloud in an otherwise clear and sunny sky; I scarcely noticed their presence, occupied as I was by my personal, dismal thoughts.

My car is a beat-up third-hand Toyota sedan. IRS forced me to part with my lovely Cadillac El Dorado, along with almost everything else I owned, to satisfy a tax assessment I consider to be improper. I claimed a deduction for my stepmother who lived with me; I paid all her expenses and gave her $600 a month spending money. What I didn’t know was that she received a substantial monthly income from my late father and she claimed a deduction for herself to lower her own tax. IRS will not accept two deductions for the same person; they honored my stepmother’s return and slapped me with a huge delinquent tax bill. I lost all but the rattling wreck I was now herding along the highway.

Bad thoughts about both IRS and my scheming stepmother cruised endlessly through my scrambled mind as I fumbled my path along SR 932. Entering a large curve in the road, I was horrified to see a huge log truck approaching. The top log teetered precariously and then began to fall. Instinctively, I slammed my right foot on the brake pedal—no brakes! I desperately attempted to steer my decrepit Toyota toward the edge of the road in a useless effort to gain clearance from the truck. The badly worn steering gear, unfortunately, made the car slow to respond to my frantic effort. At that moment the top log leaped from the load and struck the hapless Toyota dead center in the front. The massive log drove straight into the car, smashing the windshield, tearing off the steering wheel and slamming my tender body through the front and rear seats and out the back of the car. There I was, a mushy, bloody mess, smeared over the end of the log that remained stuck through the center of the stricken vehicle.

There could be no doubt about it; I was dead. No one could survive such a blow. One of my ears was still twitching, impaled upon a small knot protruding from the log. I knew it was my ear for I could clearly see the lump remaining from a bee sting suffered three days earlier. I was irritated. If not for IRS and my stepmother I still would have my El Dorado and would have been long gone before the truck arrived at the fateful curve.

A thought suddenly occurred to me; how could I see if I were dead? An inventory of myself revealed nothing; there were no arms, legs, body or head that I could locate. A small pond lay across the road from my fatal accident. I wondered what reflection the pond would offer if I were able to peer into it? I was abruptly staring into a blank pool—no reflection. I was there—but not there.

Some unknown force came upon me and I began to ascend, further and further; the wreck became a tiny speck and then entirely disappeared. Soon I became aware of the presence of others although I could see no one. How long my ascent continued I couldn’t say, there being no means of measuring time. Time had become non-existent.

A soft light eventually appeared in the distance, a light that became more intense as I drew closer. Fascinated by the process unfolding before me, I eagerly anticipated my arrival at this destination of which I knew nothing. Suddenly, I was there. Billowing white clouds extended both right and left. I approached the white mass; it appeared to be soft, with no discernable substance.

I pushed against the mass but although it yielded and my hand left a small indentation, I could not penetrate it. I was shocked; it seemed I had a hand but couldn’t see it. Queer. An odd sensation passed through my non-existent body; the effect was bewildering and scary. The wall of clouds extended as far as I could see. I pressed my invisible hand against the cloud wall at numerous places but always with the same result. The strange wall could not be entered although I felt a strange and compelling desire to pass through it to the unknown that surely was beyond.

I detected other indentations in the wall, slowly rebounding, as would a sponge rubber ball one has squeezed and then removed the pressure. Could there be others that were experiencing a similar dilemma? If so, I could not see them; all was silent and confusing.

Moving to my left, I continued to occasionally press the cloud with no results until finally I saw an elaborately designed golden sign that pointed to my right and stated, Entrance Gate. I turned and slowly retraced my way noting as I went that the depressions I had created were gradually recovering and the cloud wall appeared as I had first seen it.

A large ornate gate with a sign: Entrance to Deployment Center suddenly appeared before me. A short distance to the right of the main entrance was another, smaller gate. This one carried a sign stating: Exit. For Reject Use Only. The small gate opened a crack; I heard a low moaning cry that became more and more faint until all was ominously quiet. The gate closed. The body I did not seem to possess shivered violently. A cold chill engulfed me and I wondered what had occurred? Had someone failed the supreme test and been rejected? If so, to where and to what had they been sent? I was not only confused; I was frightened.

I tentatively approached the main entrance gate. Fog drifted and swirled around my missing feet. A tall man clothed in a long, flowing white robe was standing nearby. Was this Saint Peter? I approached him slowly, sensing I was in the presence of others although I could see no one. As I drew closer, I steadily became more apprehensive until finally, trembling in every one of my non-existent fibers, I stood before him wondering what would happen next. His demeanor was business-like; his voice was kind, but his face was stern and I shuddered as I thought of the reject exit.

He noticed me, nodded his head, and asked: name, nationality and Social Security number if you were an American? I answered the questions, surprised to hear my voice when there was no me.

He turned to the cloud and waved his hand; the dense fog at that spot dissipated to disclose a keyboard and monitor. After fussing with the keys for a moment he turned toward me, a puzzled look on his fine, weathered face. You must have provided me with an incorrect Social Security number. Are you certain the number given is accurate?

I repeated the number and he tried the keys again only to turn to me and say, It seems there is an error somewhere. The monitor indicates that number shows only the date of birth; the date of death is blank. Date of death should be indicated if you are here. For unknown reasons you were called before your time. You should not be here. The master computer may have a bug.

What happens to me now? I asked. I’m here. I saw my body smeared all over the end of a log. The body is useless.

As I stated, you are not yet due to be called. The Master knows your final date but that is classified as highly secret information and none of His associates hold that knowledge. You are free to return and go about the business of living until you are properly called.

But where can I go? My body is destroyed and of no value. I have no home, no possessions and no family.

Indeed. Yours is a strange case. I do not recall such an event during my tenure and I have been here in excess of 2,000 years of your time. I suggest you return to Earth and locate a family that is losing the male leader. You should select someone who is leaving an undamaged body. I’ll prepare a variance to permit this transition for you. When the present occupant leaves, you simply move in and carry on for him until we call you. I caution that your choice will be final; if you become dissatisfied, you must bear your trouble; you cannot relocate in another body. You must excuse me; there are many surrounding us to be processed. Events on Earth keep me very busy and I have many applicants in waiting. Too bad those on Earth cannot find peaceful solutions to their many squabbles. I may need to request assistance at the gate. You may return now.

I began to drift from the gate feeling both relief and disappointment. It was comforting to believe I would return to life, although I had no idea how that would occur. But there was a touch of disappointment as well as I speculated on what was beyond the gate I could not enter. The clouds soon disappeared leaving only a bright glow behind me. That too, was quickly gone. Then only darkness, pitch black, and a sensation that I was moving. Velocity and direction were unknown.

Drifting through the darkness with no knowledge of my destination, I pondered my fate. The figure in the white robe told me I had one choice to make and I must live with the results. My choice must be a good one. Some young man suffering a fatal heart attack might be a good possibility. That way I can acquire an undamaged body. How can I locate such a candidate and be able to screen his past behavior to know he is acceptable? The transition must occur quickly otherwise the body will commence to spoil and I might go through the rest of my life as a physical wreck. A scary thought, that possibility is not attractive. The entire event is bewildering. The heart attack notion appears best but I must assume the heart will be jump-started for me at the opportune moment. Can I make such an assumption? What do I have to lose? I’m not much the way I am.

Through the intense darkness I observed a faint light, which like the coming of dawn, steadily became more visible. I drifted through space with no apparent direction yet ere long found myself staring downward toward the scene of my fatal accident. Two patrol cars were sitting, lights flashing, as officers conducted the cleanup operation. Shards of broken glass littered the roadside. The wrecked Toyota was to be hauled away by a tow-truck and a self-loading log truck was collecting logs scattered when the truck carrying the errant log tipped into the ditch during the accident. I watched the work going on before me, distraught by the sorry scene. Then came a rude shock. The self-loader grabbed the log that had pierced my Toyota and dragged it free—my mangled carcass still splattered over the end. Log and I were placed on the waiting truck and sent to a nearby mill. I followed the truck, effortlessly floating along, wondering what would become of my remains.

To my disgust the load was taken to a de-barking machine. The log was hit with a high-pressure water jet from the hydraulic de-barker. The naked log went to a sawmill whereas the log bark and my useless body were dumped into a pile of material being prepared for compost. This was a sorry turn of events. I always respected my body and it was depressing to have it converted into compost material. Now it appeared to be destined to become part of some plant. What would it become? A giant fir tree might not be so bad, they can live several centuries if they are lucky and can avoid a chain saw. But what if it were spread in a field of vegetables? I hoped not broccoli—I hate the stuff. Even more discouraging was the thought someone might be chewing my right foot as they munched a carrot. As I flipped from one vantage point to another in my observation of the compost pile, I realized both bark and my remains were becoming well mixed and could end up in a multitude of places. Both my body and that of my Toyota were to be recycled.

Watching the composting operation that mixed my mangled body with log waste was very upsetting; I realized I should abandon my useless body and begin the search for a replacement. The old me would only be good to grow vegetables and flowers. I perched on a limb of a giant cottonwood tree growing along the bank of a small, gurgling stream to reflect upon my situation.

The white-robed figure had told me to locate a family that was losing a male leader and that the body should be undamaged. Those restrictions seemed to foreclose a lot of potential bodies. I would only have one opportunity. This task would require extreme caution or I could get into a lot of trouble.

The nearby city with the huge Central Hospital seemed a good place to commence my search. That facility has a great flow of sick and injured people constantly moving through, and of course, there are always some who do not survive. I elected to sort through the hospital’s ailing pack.

One thing about my newfound astral state, mobility is great. I have merely to decide where I wish to go and in a flash I am there. Outside the hospital I waited for someone to open the entrance door so I could go inside. Since I have no body and no strength I cannot open a door. To my amazement and delight I passed through the closed door as if it were open. Drifting down the main corridor I came upon the nurses’ station and decided to hang around to learn what I could about their patients, hoping there might be a useful cadaver somewhere in the hospital. I perched upon the headband of a nurse and waited, of course I selected the cute one.

The nurses gabbled while they worked and I soon learned they expected to lose a forty-two year old patient, Douglas Steele. Could he be a body-donor for me? Floating down the hall toward his room I accidentally bumped into an intern who abruptly appeared from one of the wards. He swiped his hand across his brow and muttered something about how could gnats get into the hospital? I continued to room 18-A where Mr. Steele was gasping his last breath.

At first impression Mr. Steele did not look very good to me, lying there with an oxygen mask over his face. I quickly glanced at his charts. They were difficult to read, as all doctors must fail in penmanship. Even so, I was able to ferret out that Mr. Steele had suffered a massive heart attack. Aside from the failing heart he seemed in excellent health, a bit overweight but nothing serious. All the important body parts were present and intact, much better than the useless mess I left at the compost pile.

I wondered about his life: what sort of person he was, did he have a family, what was his occupation? There would be no opportunity to investigate him thoroughly; he would not last long. I hastened to the closet to see his clothing and was pleased to see an expensive pair of slacks and sport jacket hanging there. They were of fine quality and in excellent condition. This guy appeared to be a good candidate to contribute my replacement body.

Returning to his bedside I noticed a framed picture of an attractive woman with two good-looking teen-age children—a nice appearing family. If I could capture Steele’s body I might gain a family; a good family would be nice. My hopes rose at the thought. Then I heard a muffled groan, glancing toward his life support monitor I saw with dismay that he was leaving. There was no time to waste if I was to use him. Further investigation was out of the question.

I moved quickly to his right ear and crept inside. He was still there, hanging on by a thread. My appearance startled him and he attempted to push me back but was too feeble to have much effect. I thrust against him and with a sad sigh he slipped out the left ear and was gone. At that moment I heard the nurse urgently calling for Dr. Thomas.

The hysterical nurse was speaking to Dr. Thomas: It’s so strange. The monitor was displaying a flat line; he was gone. Then it abruptly resumed normal rhythm. Look at it. He’s breathing now just as if he had no problems. His heart appears to be normal. I just don’t understand it.

A moment before the bewildered nurse spoke to the doctor I had hastily attached myself to the myriad neurons of Mr. Steele’s brain. Connections completed, I felt an odd sensation in my chest as the heart began to beat its normal pace. All was well; I was now Mr. Douglas Steele—whomever he had been. My variance had been accepted just as the fine looking figure in the white robe had indicated. What a relief!

Later that evening I was pleased to have an extremely attractive, well-dressed lady enter my room. Recognizing her to be the lady in the photograph beside my bed, I properly assumed her to be my wife and I eagerly anticipated our meeting.

She addressed me harshly. So, you decided to return from the dead. The nurse says your turn-around was a miracle they cannot explain. They say if your fantastic recovery continues you will be ready to come home this weekend, though I don’t know what I’m to do with you. I have some events planned and you’ll be a nuisance if you’re underfoot around the house.

Her face and figure were lovely but her voice reminded me of a croaking raven. Her behavior resembled the IRS agent and my stepmother all rolled into one. I timidly inquired where the kids were, thinking it odd they had not accompanied her to visit me.

Her response was sharp and blunt, They’re busy. Mike has a date to go to some concert. He took your Cadillac; his Mustang isn’t running well. Joan has a sleep-in with some of her girl friends—probably another pot party. I’m leaving now. I have a dinner engagement with my attorney. We intended to discuss that $500,000 life policy you hold. If you’re going to survive I won’t get it and I had counted on that money for clothing, some new furniture and a little trip to Europe. With those affectionate statements she swirled through the doorway and disappeared.

An enormous feeling of despair came over me after my wife departed. Apparently my nice appearing family as depicted in the photograph was not so nice. What sort of mess had I slipped into? My attractive wife seemed to be a money-grabbing shrew and my two children were social disasters. I’d had one chance and in my eagerness to resume life I had blown my sole opportunity. But I was trapped, no choice remained but for me to assume the life of Douglas Steele and do what I could.

Arrival of a nurse (with my luck it was not the cute one) found me in a deep melancholy state; I was listless and generally unresponsive. She fed me some pills, poured a glass of water down my gullet and told me to shake out of my lethargy if I wished to go home soon. The bustling nurse asked why a visit from my beautiful wife left me in such a deep funk?

I played dumb and asked her, Was that my wife that was just here? I’m still foggy on things.

Of course it was your wife, Tanya, you lucky man. How could you fail to recognize her? Everyone knows her from her days as a model at Fashion Clothiers. And everyone I know would like to be invited to her high society dinners. I mumbled an unintelligent reply and the nurse left.

Now I know I have a wife named Tanya who was once a well-known model; I have two kids, Mike and Joan, who are well on their way to ruin and I know my name. Not much for the head of the household to go on.

There is so much I don’t know. I have become Douglas Steele: what kind of house do I have and where is it situated? What is my occupation? Do I owe any money, if so, to whom and how much? Do I have any money? My dilemma is overwhelming.

I attempted to stall my recovery that I might remain in the hospital to learn more of myself but that ploy didn’t work. The gentleman in the white robe had been good to his word; my heart was now normal, there was nothing wrong with me and I was told to leave the hospital the following day. I requested the staff to notify my wife to come for me. Would she come for me? I didn’t know, but how else could I get home? I didn’t know where I lived.

The morning nurse informed me to be ready to leave the hospital for my wife was to come at 10 a.m. to take me home. After nibbling my way through a standard hospital breakfast of dry scrambled eggs, dry toast and very weak coffee, I went to the closet to try on Mr. Steele’s clothing. His garments were good stuff, they fit well and I felt quite presentable after donning them.

I rummaged through his pockets but found little of interest other than his wallet, a small, high quality pocketknife and one tiny key. What secrets would that key unlock? Could I find the lock it would fit? The wallet was next—a fine eel skin model. Mr. Steele appeared to have been an upper class citizen. The wallet contained $526 in cash, two oil company credit cards, a credit card from a major department store, plus some business cards revealing he was an associate of a well-known engineering firm. There was nothing in the wallet to indicate the capacity in which he served the company.

My major problem is that I retain my life’s memories to the point at which I assumed Mr. Steele’s body but he took his memories with him. I know my past and will have his future but I have no knowledge of his past. These circumstances place a huge burden on any attempt I make to resume his life. Examination of his belongings only informed me where he might have been employed but there was nothing to suggest what he did. I prowled through his overnight bag but found only the usual: extra underwear, socks and toilet necessities. Mr. Steele’s past life will be slow and difficult to unravel.

Tanya was late; it was past noon and no sign of her. I was sitting in a small, uncomfortable chair peering through the dirty window of my ward at the scenic brick wall of a nearby apartment building. A call to her was tempting; I abandoned the idea as I did not know my phone number and was reluctant to ask the nurse and expose my ignorance. I continued to wait for tardy Tanya.

My spirits soared when a nurse came into the room but they quickly fell to a still lower level as she directed me to leave the room and wait in the hallway. My room was required for another patient. Finally, in mid-afternoon, Tanya appeared to escort me to the home I own but have never seen.

She barged abruptly through the doorway, her lovely face knotted and lined into an intense scowl. Why didn’t you take a taxi? Her voice was shrill and cold. "Well move it, I haven’t got all day. Joan has my Mercedes and Mike wrecked your Caddy. You could have taken a taxi home rather than make me get one to collect you. Don’t you ever think of someone else? I’m hosting guests this evening and haven’t got time to chase all over town. Come on, let’s get out of here." Clutching Steele’s overnight bag I meekly followed her to the waiting taxi. She was unaware that I didn’t know where I lived.

We made the trip in chill silence. Tanya said nothing, merely staring through the cab window as we sped from the hospital toward a section of the city containing upper class residences. I was desperate to commence rebuilding the blank region in Mr. Steele’s memory but could not form any questions that, offered in a subtle manner, might give clues to resolve my dilemma.

The driver turned onto Columbia Avenue. I gasped; this was where the rich dudes lived. We approached a group of particularly impressive homes and the taxi slowed, then stopped before a fine structure. It wasn’t the greatest of the lot but neither was it the poorest. I recalled having driven this street before, wondering who owned these houses and how they had the money to purchase and maintain them.

I gazed through the taxi window with awe. Before me stood an imposing three story home. Grecian pillars supported a massive front entrance facing the circular paved drive leading to the street two hundred feet distant. Four dormers dominated the upper section. A three-car garage was attached to the east end. Landscaping was complete and immaculate. Some pad, apparently Mr. Steele had done well.

A voice beside me growled, Well get out. You act like you never saw the place before. Go do your own thing, I have guests to prepare for. With those kind words Tanya opened her door, slipped around the rear of the taxi and trotted up the steps to disappear into the house. I spent $26 of Mr. Steele’s money to pay the driver and with great apprehension slowly made my way toward the great doorway wondering what lay behind it.

My exposure to the exterior of the house had partially prepared me for the interior; still, I was somewhat stunned as I stood in the great hallway peering right and left to orient myself. The hallway floor was beige tile and shiny as a mirror. One corner held a built-in coat closet for guest apparel; it seemed nearly as large as my previous living room. The walls were adorned with paintings signed by well-known artists. Whether genuine or fake I could not determine, as I am no expert on such matters. Either way, they were impressive in their positions.

A huge dining room lay to my right and I slipped in to examine it. The floor was covered with what I assumed to be Persian carpeting, probably very expensive but I have no experience with such floor covering so was only guessing. Ornate crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, lavish drapes, at present parted, adorned the windows. Dominating the room was a long dining table set with twenty places. The place settings also looked expensive to one who is accustomed to plastic. No wonder Tanya was edgy, having to prepare a feast for so many. That thought came before I met Sarah, the cook, and her many complaints.

My attention shifted to the other side of the house where I found an enormous living room, fully furnished with leather chairs, occasional tables, and bookcases—everything one could think of. A six-foot TV screen dominated one wall, a massive stone fireplace another. I passed through a set of French doors and came into the recreation room: pool table, slot machine, dart boards and card tables. One side of the room contained a long mahogany bar that would put the Majestic Palace Casino to shame.

Passing through a set of swinging doors I found a kitchen and informal dining area—all first class. Unfortunately, that was where I met Sarah, the cook, who descended upon me with a list of demands and complaints that made my head swim. I stammered an answer (clearly unacceptable to her) that I would correct the problems and then I tactfully retreated from the kitchen.

A short hallway led to the master bedroom in a rear corner of the house. I knocked on the door but received no answer. Then I started to open the door slowly but suddenly thought, hey, the house belongs to Steele and now that’s me. I threw the door open and quickly strode inside. Tanya was sitting in her underwear applying makeup. She looked up, clearly startled, then, her face contorted with fury, she spat, "What the Hell are you doing in here? You know this is my room! Get out! Go upstairs to your own room and stay out of mine."

I sadly withdrew and retraced my way to the living room where a wide curving stairway led upstairs. A long hallway ran the full length of the house. Six bedrooms opened off the hall, four had private baths and two shared one. Examination of the rooms revealed a very messy one I assumed belonged to Mike, another nearly as poorly kept must belong to Joan. I thought I could identify the owners because of the nude male and female pinups pasted to the walls.

The last room I entered was a bedroom at the end of the hall. It was as far as it could be from Tanya’s. It was simply furnished, an exception being a fine oak desk in one corner. This had been Steele’s room but now it was mine. The bed invited me for a rest; I lay down and slept uninterrupted for nearly three hours. It had been a hard day and although Steele’s body was in good condition, running it with my will had proven extremely fatiguing. It will require time to adjust to this condition of controlling someone else’s body.

After my rest I noticed a worn, but comfortable, chair alongside a reading lamp and I settled down to reflect upon my position. I was extremely uneasy; things just were not right. No one had come to greet Dad when he came home from the hospital. This was not a home; there were no family associations. This was not a house; it was a mansion. Everything indicated money—lots of it. Where did it all come from?

Every room, every furnishing, spoke of wealth. How had Steele achieved such success? Why did Tanya hold such antagonism toward her husband? I was now that husband. Was there any way I could adjust to this mess and satisfactorily function in his stead? Whatever position Steele held with the engineering firm must be far beyond my capabilities. I could not substitute for him without his background. The longer I sat, the more I thought; the worse my position appeared. I did not see how I could become Douglas Steele and I could not see how I could not be Douglas Steele. I rose from the chair and began to pace slowly back and forth across the room. While doing so my hand idly slid into my pants pocket where I felt the key I had discovered earlier.

I examined the desk; it was locked. Perhaps Steele’s desk would hold some answers to my many questions. With trembling hands I withdrew the key and unlocked the desk to begin my search. The first drawer contained unpaid bills—lots of them. Four credit cards were beyond their credit limits and in arrears, mostly for women’s clothing but there was also a charge for draperies, a charge for hairdressing, a charge for perfume; the charges were endless. Worst of all, they were all past due. More bills: heat and lights were delinquent, real estate taxes unpaid and car payments were overdue. I totaled the credit card charges and other unpaid bills with the desk calculator to learn my predecessor owed current charges of $107,308. It was clear that the Steele family, like many other American families, had been living far beyond their means.

How much did he owe on the mansion? The answer to that question came from the next drawer. I found several envelopes bound together by a rubber band. A sheet of paper was held to the top of the stack with only the word finished written across it. I withdrew the first envelope, one from a life insurance company. The enclosed letter informed Steele his $500,000 life policy was canceled for non-payment of premiums; all cash value had either been borrowed or used for past premium payment. I wondered if Tanya knew this and how it might influence her cozy relationship with her attorney.

The next envelope was from a bank notifying Steele that foreclosure actions were being initiated on his home for non-payment. He had until the end of the month to pay the full sum due—$2,426,916 or face eviction. I glanced at the desk calendar and saw there remained eight days until reckoning.

This guy’s troubles never seemed to stop—and they didn’t. The third envelope told Steele that his employment with the engineering firm was terminated for reasons well known to him. Then there was another from a bank telling him his checking account was overdrawn.

Once more I paused to reflect upon my position. It seemed I could not have made a poorer choice than when I climbed into Steele’s ear and pushed him from his body. I had obtained: a cheating, scheming, hostile wife, two worthless kids, current obligations in excess of $100,000, had my life insurance canceled, was about to lose my house, had no money and had already lost my job.

There was one envelope remaining. What else had gone wrong for him? That message was the worst yet. It was from a firm of attorneys representing the engineering company where he had been employed. An audit of company books revealed a shortage of $1,672,617 for which Steele would face embezzlement charges. No wonder he had suffered a massive heart attack!

Stunned by the enormity of the trap into which I had stumbled, I sat down once more to try to sort out the mess I was in. How had all this happened to me? There was no way I could stay in this house and masquerade as Douglas Steele. My time for decision was short, eight days to eviction and perhaps less than that with the embezzlement charge over my head. If I stayed I was going to jail and I would be doing so for someone else’s crime. My memory slipped back to stepmother and IRS; they had brought me to this. I cursed them soundly but it didn’t seem to help. I had to figure a way out—and soon.

For several minutes my thoughts circulated round and round with no results as if my neuron connections to Steele’s brain were unraveling. I was getting nowhere. Then a sudden inspiration, I would use Steele’s body (I was compelled to do that) but I would revert to my former self once more. The rent on my apartment was not due until the end of the month; I had eight days. I never locked my door for I had little for anyone to steal. Entry should be easy if no one saw a stranger enter the unit.

Before I left the mansion I made a complete search of Steele’s room to be certain I missed nothing of interest. I tried the shallow top drawer in the desk but it seemed stuck and would not open. With disgust I gave up on it and gave one last glance at the drawer below. Way in the back was another envelope jammed in the corner. I reached for it and in doing so, brushed a small metal trigger in the top of the drawer opening. I heard a faint click. The envelope proved to be empty but as I raised my head I saw the shallow center drawer was now ajar.

Wondering how much more trouble Steele could have had I investigated the shallow drawer and found Steele’s diary. I stuffed it into my (Steele’s) jacket pocket. There were also two envelopes, one of which was sealed. I slit the sealed one open with his knife. Money! I counted it—24, $1,000 bills and 10, $100 bills—$25,000 in cash! The other envelope contained several pictures of him, some as a growing boy and others as a young man. I