You Don't Know Me, but My Name Is Yea

By Carl Capatina

All eyes were on Suzy. She was wavering between
making a dash to their safe room (a cement bunker
located behind a hidden door in their downstairs
guest bathroom that she had insisted on constructing
when they fi rst moved in, after all, everyone knows that
the suburbs are rife with crime) with Guido clutched to
her breast or trying to beat Guido to the front door so that
she could be the fi rst to see what I had in store for my
next trick. She leaned over and softly whispered in my ear
Just so you know; if you hurt him I personally will hunt
you down! There will be no police, no FBI, no lawyers, no
jury, no arrest, no appeal, just me! The Bible says that
vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord. I say that if it is good
enough for God then it is good enough for me.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 17, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462896257

Carl Capatina

More years ago than he prefers to remember Carl “Grandpa Yea” Capatina was born in Fort Wayne, Indiana. A graduate of Trine University he received his Doctorate in Grandpa-ology courtesy of his eleven (at last count) grandchildren. His religious training came via the route of attending over the years Baptist, Methodist, Lutheran, Catholic, Pentecostal, Southern Baptist, and Presbyterian churches along with a couple of thrilling evenings experiencing an old fashion tent revival meeting. “YOU DON’T KNOW ME, BUT MY NAME IS YEA” is his first novel

Book preview

You Don’t Know Me,

But My Name is

Yea

100752-CAPA-layout-low.pdf

Carl Capatina

Copyright © 2011 by Carl Capatina.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2011910793

ISBN:         Hardcover                               978-1-4628-9624-0

                   Softcover                                 978-1-4628-9623-3

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4628-9625-7

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.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

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100752

Contents

Part 1

Prelog

Chapter 1 They Call Me Mr. Facilitator

Chapter 2 A Stranger Calls

Chapter 3 A Conversation Amongst the Bubbles

Chapter 4 Paula’s Sea Food May Never Recover

Chapter 5 When Suzy Meets Yea

Chapter 6 Yea Explains Who He Is

Chapter 7 Suzy and Skip Compare Notes

Chapter 8 When Yea meets Guido

Chapter 9 Yea and Guido Have a Chat

Chapter 10 The Three Fonda’s Collide

Chapter 11 Later That Evening

Chapter 12 Suzy Knows the Answers But Not the Questions

Chapter 13 Spy, Jack Spy

Chapter 14 Suzy Jogs the Families Psychic

Chapter 15 Plink Plink Plunk

Chapter 16 The World According to Famous Amos

Part Two

Chapter 17 The Real Story Begins

Chapter 18 Yea’s Turn to Heal Begins

Chapter 19 Fresh Air, Sunshine and a Little Misdirection

Chapter 20 One Small Step for Man

Chapter 21 Yea Takes One Step to Many

Chapter 22 Guido and I Take a Walk

Chapter 23 Guido Gives His View of God

Chapter 24 Heaven May Never Recover

Chapter 25 Negotiating with God Is Hard Work

Chapter 26 Saint Peter and God Contemplate the Bikini

Chapter 27 Skip Has a Prayer of His Own

Chapter 28 The Beginning

Postscript

Everyone has a first crush, a first date, a first kiss, a first dance, a first love. Most have a first home, a first spouse. I have been privileged to share all of these firsts and many more with one woman, my wife Juanita. I dedicate this book to the unfailing love and support she has shown me as we have traveled life’s journey together.

Part 1

PRELOG

The night was dark and stormy, as these stories are always apt to start. Two vehicles were hurtling along an unlit section of a two lane country highway toward a common date with destiny. One, a newer four wheel drive SUV, was heading home from a family gathering. The second, an older pickup truck, was headed toward Kelly’s Bar. No one knows what happened, at least no one who lived. Maybe the driver of the car was overly fatigued, a half empty bottle of amphetamines was found on the floor. Or maybe the driver of the truck was changing the Rap CD for one of the several country music CDs that were found strewn about what was left of the truck’s cab. Maybe it was neither, a tire might have blown or an animal might have bolted across their path from out of the darkness. It really doesn’t matter. The result for these poor souls would still be the same.

Michigan State Police trooper Sgt. Reynolds, a ten year veteran police officer just starting his shift of duty, was the first person to come upon the scene. He knew instantly that there would be no need for the rescue team to use their lights and siren. There would be no survivors tonight. It might have been the thought of what he was about to see but he preferred to think that it was the sound of the wind whipping through the tree tops that made him shiver.

This was the part of the job that Sgt. Reynolds hated. Traffic stops, with their potential for trouble were exciting to him and nothing got his adrenalin pumping like the occasional high speed chase. Those were the fun parts of the job, but this, standing in the dark during a torrential downpour surrounded by carnage seldom seen outside of a war zone, this he would happily do without. In his notes it would state that if the redneck in the truck or the pair of yuppies in the SUV had their seatbelts on this may have turned out differently but he doubted it.

When the paramedics arrived he directed them to the pickup truck first. The bodies in the SUV would have to be cut out by the fire department when they arrived. After they had extricated the pickup truck driver, EMT Ian Thomason hollered over to Sgt. Reynolds Hank, do you know who that is? It’s Mike Wilson! The wind doubled in intensity as if punctuating the identification of the dead, rising to a crescendo as though howling at the moonless sky. Ian unashamedly shuddered; it wasn’t a fit night out for man or beast.

Oh my God no, his wife Mary just had a baby girl, what about two weeks ago? One of the drawbacks to being a police officer in the area you lived is the tendency to know the people you must deal with on an official basis. Mary had been his first crush back in high school. He lost her love to that hard partying quarterback on the football team, Mike Wilson. About a year ago Mike came close to losing her to his battle with the brown bottle. Over the years as his drinking had increased so had his temper until the night that Sgt. Reynolds got the call from Mary that her husband, on yet another drunken binge, had broken her right arm in a fight over the car keys. That little lapse in judgment cost Mike thirty days in jail but bought him a lifetime membership in AA. If Sgt. Reynolds had his way it would have cost him a divorce as well. As all too often happens when matters of the heart win out over matters of the mind Mary’s forgiveness came with devastating results. Mike couldn’t deny the power of demon alcohol even with bi-weekly meetings and Mary couldn’t deny her self destructive love for her man even with bi-weekly beatings. Sgt. Reynolds knew for a fact that alcohol cost Mike his job as a welder down at the plant and then the family car and finally their split-level home. When he found out that his wife was pregnant Mike had earnestly gone on the wagon which was what Mary prayed would happen as she ‘accidently" forgot to take her birth control pills but Sgt. Reynolds just knew in his bones that when the blood alcohol tests on the driver’s bodies come back Mike’s will be over the limit.

"Yeah Hank, a week ago last Monday it was. You know how Mike is . . . was . . . , he waited until the last minute to call for an ambulance. Bry and I delivered her right there in the middle of their living room."

Ian! EMT Bry, Ian’s twin brother, Thomason called out as he leaned in through the driver’s window of the SUV.

Have you been able to determine what caused the accident? Ian queried his friend.

IAN! Bry cried out in a manner that he knew his brother would respond to, calm but demanding of immediate response, I’ve got a pulse!

Sgt. Reynolds’ heart stopped in mid-beat. He couldn’t imagine how there could be a survivor. Both of the bodies in the SUV were horribly mangled. The female passenger, obviously one of those clueless yuppies who thought her bank balance made her immune to the laws of physics, had not been wearing her seatbelt. Both of her legs had compound fractures from where they impacted the underneath portion of the dashboard as her body was thrown through the windshield. Her face had been so shredded by its double journey through the glass that it was not recognizable. Not only not recognizable as to her identity but not even recognizable as being human! Mercifully she also had a broken neck; death had been instantaneous. It was to the driver that EMT Bry Thomason was motioning. But that wasn’t possible was it? True, even though he also was not wearing his seatbelt, the steering wheel had kept him from smashing into the windshield. But that very same steering wheel crushed his chest and abdomen as though they had been made out of eggshells. Both of the airbags had deployed but they were only airbags not miracle workers. You’ll have that when twelve thousand pounds of SUV goes head to head with twelve thousand pounds of heavy duty truck at sixty plus miles an hour each. Even though he was not a doctor, with his years of experience in investigating fatal accidents, Hank recognized that the internal injuries would have to have been devastating and complete. Not one to assume anything when a life was at stake he still had checked for a pulse and could find none. He about broke down in tears as he repeatedly asked himself How could I have been so wrong?

While Hank stood frozen in shock, Ian was springing into action. Not to the SUV, his experience in saving lives told him that would be a waste of time that the driver could ill afford to lose. It was back to the ambulance that Ian raced. He grabbed his equipment bag then turned and sprinted toward the SUV. By the time Ian got there Bry had ascertained that they would have to stabilize their patient right where he was, penned in the vehicle, while they awaited the fire department with their ‘Jaws-of-Life’.

Working together as a team, Bry placed a neck brace on the driver as Ian was installing an IV into his arm. The fire truck’s siren could now be heard wailing soulfully in the distance. It would only be about five more minutes before it arrived. Hank still did not move. He just stood there next to his patrol car. His actions, or more to the point his inactions, could have cost that poor soul his life. From somewhere out of the murkiness of his mind someone was shouting to him Hank! Hank! We could use a hand over here! Forced out of his inertia, Sgt. Reynolds looked up and saw Ian motioning to him. Snap out of it man, I need you to hold this saline bag while we try to stop some of this bleeding. Thankful for something to do, instead of just standing there beating himself up for nearly causing a man’s death, Sgt. Reynolds rushed to their aid.

Once on site, the firemen were able to cut the roof off of the SUV in record time. Then off came the driver’s door and the steering wheel. In less than two minutes after their arrival the driver was freed from his six ton prison of twisted metal. The EMTs had the driver strapped down on their gurney and were about to connect an EKG when one of the firemen let out a yell OVER HERE, we’ve done gone and got ourselves another survivor!

From out of the back of the pile of scrap iron that earlier tonight had been a one year old $74,000 land yacht a whimper had been heard. Fireman, Arfst Ichycawa, fresh out of the academy and on only his third night on the job had heard the small cry of a child as he helped pull the body of the female passenger from the wreckage. There in the back of the SUV he found a miracle that would stay with him the rest of his life. A young boy, wrapped in a down filled sleeping bag, was coming to after being knocked out by the collision. Outside of a knot on his head from its contact with the back of the seat he had no injuries. No broken bones, no concussion, no scrapes, not even any bruises, just that one knot right in the middle of his forehead. Arfst couldn’t help but be in awe as the child calmly unzipped the sleeping bag, which had no doubt served as a life saving cocoon, stood up and climbed over the remains of the tailgate.

The youngster cautiously walked over to Arfst, who was standing there with an incredulous look on his face, and anxiously asked Are you God?

Nnnno, my name is Arfst. I’m a fireman.

I thought that I heard a voice say that everyone was dead. Am I dead?

No son, you were in a car accident and I am a fireman here to help you.

Looking back at the two vehicles hopelessly mangled beyond recognition he asked bewilderedly Is my mommy and daddy dead?

To this Arfst did not know what to say. How do you tell a small child that his mother is dead and his father dying? Fortunately for him the twin EMTs, Bry and Ian, knelt down beside the boy and with a nod let Arfst know they would take it from there. After satisfying themselves that the child did not have any life threatening injuries they led him over to the ambulance. To their amazement they had two survivors to transport to the hospital. That is if they could stabilize the man long enough to survive the ride.

It wasn’t until morning that Sgt. Reynolds would be able to determine the full story. The pickup truck had been heading east. The SUV was coming from the East. Neither driver was at fault. The bloody remains of a deer were found nearly torn in half in the brush alongside the road. The couple in the SUV probably never saw the deer until it passed over their windshield. Their skid marks plainly told the rest of the story. They show the SUV crossing the centerline and hitting the pickup head on with predictably devastating results.

The massive amount of blood covering the scene no doubt came from what was left of the mangled bodies of the vehicle’s occupants co-mingled with that of the deer. The vomit on the side of the road came from Sgt. Reynolds earlier that night; as stated previously trying to find rationality in carnage like this was the one part of the job he hated.

No one at the scene knew the future that was in store for the ‘Miracle Boy’. That is the future beyond his trip to the hospital. His impossible survival without a scratch was only to be his first miracle; it was not to be his last. Oh, not miracles in the sense that it would be he that next raised the dead or made the blind see ala Jesus Christ but miracles nonetheless. For it would be this child that would play a crucial role in God’s plan for mankind! You see God has an objective for all of our lives. His objective for this child was that he would be instrumental in preparing the way for the establishment of God’s kingdom on earth by reuniting his followers. Over the millenniums, God’s message to the world has been divided, diluted, and disparaged to the point that his Church has been fragmented beyond recognition. The fact that each fragment, be it Baptist, Muslim, Methodist, Catholic, Mormon, Quaker, Pentecostal, Wicca, Presbyterian, Sunni, Lutheran, Jehovah Witness, Shiite, Church of England, or Southern Baptist all believe there is but one true God has been lost to the ages. Instead, each denomination/sect has chosen to vilify the others over their ‘miss-interpretation of God’s word’ creating ever increasing chasms of dissent instead of choosing to reconcile their differences so that they could combine to advance the dominion of God. Each insisting on the dogma that it is only through their own denomination/sect’s unique understanding of God’s will that an individual could be assured of a place in heaven seemed to be the only truth on which they could agree. No, God’s objective for this child is not to raise the dead, or make the blind see. This child is to find a way to negate organized religions differences, to combine their similarities, to merge them into the ‘One True Church’ that the ‘One True God’ deserves!

His objective for the child’s parents was that they were to prepare their son mentally, spiritually, and emotionally such that he would be in a prepared state to do so when the time came. To do so, God provided the boy’s father with the economic resources to give him a world class education so that his intellect could be developed to its fullest. God provided the boy’s mother with a vastly different background, a humble background of poverty and debasement, that would help keep her grounded in her humanity even when she was in danger of being overwhelmed by the obscene wealth afforded her by her husband. This was to serve as a counterbalance to the crassness that his father might indulge in due to his early and easily obtained success in everything he endeavored to do.

Why would an omnipotent God go through all of this complicated rigmarole just to get someone to bring all Christian and non-Christian believers into line with his plan for them? For that matter why would such a God have permitted mankind to make such a hodgepodge out of something that he, in the form of the Bible and other religious works such as the Koran, had provided as a clear blueprint for the way he desired us to live our lives? After all, an all powerful God should be able to make mere humans do what ever he wanted them to do. The answer to both questions is the same. God does not want trained pets to fetch sticks or to sit up and beg on command! He wants companions that, out of their own freewill, want to be his companion; that out of their own freewill want to be worthy of being a companion of his. If you remember in your earliest training way back in Bible School, you learned two things about the creation of the first man, Adam. First that God created Adam in his own image and second that God recognized Adam’s need for a companion and so he created Eve. This should not be a difficult concept for mankind to grasp but somehow they have failed to do so from the beginning of history: when God created man in his image it was not simply his physical appearance that was being referred to in the Bible but also his needs. Just as Adam needed more, even though he resided in the Garden of Eden with all manner of creatures that God had provided him for his use, than a pet that he could train to fetch sticks or to sit up and beg on command but a companion that he could share his existence with, ‘SO DOES GOD’! That is why God gave man freewill! God knew that if man had freewill that he would digress at times. God knew that if he gave man freewill that he would lose his way at times, even as he traveled down the well marked path that God provided. For that path is littered with distractions and temptations. This is the price that God has been willing to pay in order to have ‘companions’ and not just pets. This was the very reason that God placed the ‘Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil’ in the Garden of Eden. It was Eve’s and then Adam’s disregard of God’s command that they should not partake of the forbidden fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil that was their first expression of freewill! God did not place it there so that mankind would be condemned. He placed it there so that mankind could flourish to his full potential. In order for man to grow into a worthy companion for God he had to be able to exercise that gift of ‘freewill’.

It was in the exercising of that God given freewill that the child’s dad found himself driving down the highway tonight. Dad was extremely tired. He had been driving for seven hours through the mountains in a blinding rain storm and he knew that the intelligent thing to do would be to stop for the night. Three times his wife had pointed out a roadside motel and three times he had stubbornly insisted that he was all right and could drive straight through to morning, condescendingly he said I am the doctor not you. After all he had already missed out on three days work to take his wife to Vegas to appease her for leaving her home when he went there for a conference. There was no need to miss work tomorrow too. God had given him all of the signs that he needed to know that he was too tired to drive, the heavy eyes, the yawning, the sudden jerks of the head as it snaps the mind back awake when it is in danger of sliding down into deadly slumber. God had given him the intelligence to recognize that these were signs of fatigue that must not be ignored and the freewill to do so. His secretary, Bambi, had given him the means to ignore fatigue, her stash of little white capsules of instant alertness (Bennys, Benzedrine, speed, uppers, co-pilots), aka amphetamines! It was in the exercising of that very same freewill that Mike Wilson, the driver of the pickup truck, found himself driving down that very same highway. He had a wife and a newborn child at home but chose to go out on a miserable night like this to meet his friends down at Kelly’s Bar. As he told his wife earlier that night After all a man deserves to be able to relax with his buds after a hard days work once in a while, doesn’t he? God easily could have commanded either along a different path. Mike’s wife could have pointed out the folly in Mike’s argument What job? You got fired last month for drinking on the job! Remember? The child’s mother could have tossed the pills out the window instead of handing her husband two more for good measure.

CHAPTER 1

They Call Me Mr. Facilitator

Please forgive me if I do not formally introduce myself. My actual name is unimportant but if you must call me something, Yea was the affectation my Hebrew mother used when she wanted my assistance with a chore. I am what, for lack of a better word, you would call a Facilitator. I intervene on God’s behalf in situations where the outcome is already predetermined but the parties involved need motivated to proceed on the journey toward that inevitable outcome. Sometimes in addition to that motivation I also assist if there is a prerequisite skill that needs to be learned. Since I am much older than the people I meet during the performance of my job I am often times called Grandpa Yea.

When I say that I am much older than the people I meet I am not exaggerating. For you see I am the ‘Yea’ of the Bible. The Yea you ask? The Yea I answer. You never heard of me you say. Of course not I say for as I stated earlier I am a Facilitator not a lead player. After he fasted and prayed to God for guidance for seven days, God sent me to help Moses finalize his plan for the exodus from Egypt. It was my suggestion that he lead them along the route that leads to the Dead Sea. Moses at first was skeptical, fearing that the Pharaoh’s army would trap them there, but after further fasting and prayer he came to realize that I was right, God would provide a way across! And it was I who directed Jesus, after he in turn had asked in prayer for divine guidance, that he must begin the fulfillment of the Old Testament prophesy. The time was right for him to perform his first public miracle, which he chose to be the turning of water into wine at a wedding party in Cana of Galilee, as a way to take a small step in the revelation of the divinity of his ministry.

You say that you still have not heard of me. Of course you have. Remember reciting the 23 Psalm in Bible School as a youth? That’s right! When it says "Yea, though I walk through the valley, David was speaking to me, Yea, explaining why he did not have fear. Then again, in the New Testament, when Jesus is quoted as saying Yea, verily I say unto you," he was also speaking directly to me, Yea, explaining what he had decided to be the major plank in his teachings. These are but two examples. Trust me there are countless more, but time, space, and my own modesty prohibit me from listing all of them here.

When I say that I am a Facilitator, you say that you have never heard of me by either the name ‘Yea’ or any other name in association with that role either. Of course not! Why would you? Permit me to list a few other Facilitators, though they were not sent by God as I am they are Facilitators non-the-less, that I am sure that you have also never heard of:

100752-CAPA-layout-low.pdf    Michelangelo’s landlord

100752-CAPA-layout-low.pdf    Cleopatra’s cosmetician

100752-CAPA-layout-low.pdf    Columbus’ navigator

100752-CAPA-layout-low.pdf    Richard Nixon’s therapist

100752-CAPA-layout-low.pdf    Santa’s stable boy

100752-CAPA-layout-low.pdf    King Tut’s vocal coach

By definition, the Facilitator is never remembered. That honor is left for the leader. You see, being remembered is not the Facilitator’s main function in life. Knowing that they had provided the mental/emotional guidance that a leader needs to obtain the desired outcome of their destiny is all the reward that a Facilitator requires. So it is with me. As I said, my name is not what is important here. What I humbly do, is!

This is a story about a family of three that requires my help. The family consists of a young boy, Guido Fonda, who leads an ideal life. His father, Doctor Skip Fonda, is the lead plastic surgeon at the very prestigious Biguns Institute for Enhancement. His mother, Suzy Fonda, graduated Magma Cum Laud from Ohio State University with a Masters Degree in early Mesopotamian poetry and has chosen to forgo a very lucrative career in that field in order to dedicate her life to her child’s wellbeing. Guido just began his fourth grade studies, well beyond his six years of age. He has been homeschooled by his mother since pre-school. He enjoys a day full of top notch education blended with an equal emphasis on art, music, and poetry. He has never been sick a day in his life. For that matter neither has his mother or father; at least not as far as he knows. From the time Guido was born he has been isolated from all of the perils of life. His TV time has been limited to one hour of PBS a day lest he be exposed to violence, a restriction that he routinely ignores on Sunday mornings when his parents sleep in. He has never had a pet; they die. He has never ridden a bicycle; they are dangerous and he might fall and skin his knee. He has never been permitted to play with the neighbor kids; they are full of germs that he might catch. Brushing and flossing after every meal, Guido has never even had a cavity. Pain, physical-mental-emotional, is a completely foreign concept to him.

My immediate mission is to help Guido face the death of his parents, death being a concept totally foreign to him, so that he does not become spiritually damaged to the point that he cannot feel empathy for the spiritual pain of others. It is to be his ability to thus empathize that will one day enable him to lead all of the disparate denominations/sects on Earth back to their common fundamental belief in one omnipotent God. For too long the emphasis for each has been on how they have differed from the others instead of focusing on how they are alike! Along the way I will also attempt to assist his parents to be spiritually prepared for what is to be their future. You see his mother and father, Suzy and Skip, are destined to be in that fore mentioned fatal car accident on the night before Guido’s seventh birthday. Suzy will die a mercifully swift, painless death but first she must find a way to forgive those who have sinned against her because until she learns to forgive others she will not be able to feel that she is worthy of asking for forgiveness from God for her own sins. Skip, will be slightly less fortunate. Suffering from a shattered pelvis, four broken ribs, and internal injuries not the least of which include a ruptured spleen, he will die in agony two hours later during the ambulance ride to the hospital. Skip has lived his life totally self absorbed. He has taken from everybody he has ever met but has seldom given of himself to anyone. This includes his relationship with his son, Guido. Guido has provided his dad an endless source of adoration and hugs, laughter and unadulterated joy, while Skip has never been able to find the time to play catch with his son under the hot summer sun, to chase fireflies together with him on a cool September’s evening, to watch Saturday morning cartoons while holding him on his knee, or even to simply read bedtime stories to him as he tucked him in at night. Which didn’t surprise Suzy much being as when Guido was a baby it was Suzy who did all of the feedings and diaper changing while Skip obsessed on earning more money today than he did yesterday. Heaven forbid that there was a possible dollar out there, somewhere, that he could have made that he somehow missed. Skip must learn how to give unselfishly of himself for in those last hours of his life he must hide his pain and his fear of his inevitable pending death in order to give his son this message: that despite his dad’s obvious lifetime preoccupation with the unabashed acquisition of wealth it is not what you take with you when you leave this life, for your soul must travel onto its next destination, be it to heaven or to hell, the same way it came into this world unencumbered by possessions, but what you leave behind. No, I’m not talking about the material possessions that we are able to greedily pile up for our heirs to fight over but the love that we have shared, the good deeds that we have done, the spiritual guidance that we have provided others. These are our true legacies. Skip’s problem is he only has a one hour ambulance ride to teach his son a life’s lesson that he himself needed an entire lifetime to grasp!

Guido, sitting in the back of the ambulance as it rushed toward the hospital, was unsure what the future held for him. His mother was dead and according to what he overheard as the EMT talked to the hospital over the radio his father was dying. Listening to the cacophony of the wailing siren, the constant beep beep beep of the EKG, the rasping breath of his father, Guido, emotionally drained but otherwise physically unhurt, will be holding Skip’s hand at the moment of his death. Skip’s final morphine clouded words to Guido will be . . . wait a minute, I’m afraid that I am getting way too far ahead of my story. Let’s start with the first time that I contacted the Fondas . . .

CHAPTER 2

A Stranger Calls

Suzy, I’m home, Dr. Skip Fonda warmly announced his arrival home with what he truly believed to be a great Cuban accent, kind of a private joke of his paying homage to an old black and white TV show he used to watch with his mother. After a hard days work of turning mole hills into mountains at the Biguns Institute he enjoyed the way this greeting always brought his wife on the run with a broad smile on her face.

Suzy, right on cue, dressed in pink flip flops, a pair of form fitting faded blue jeans complete with just the right amount of stylish rips and tears, her favorite tie dyed tee shirt, the cheap costume jewelry peace sign pierced earrings that were a wedding gift from Skip’s ‘lost in the sixties’ mother, Tonga Fonda, along with a very expensive gold choker made up of matched pearls around her neck, stood on her tiptoes and by stretching her petite five foot two inch frame for all it was worth planted her customary kiss on her husband’s cheek. Then after taking his briefcase out of his hand she managed to exchange it for his martini (stirred not shaken so as not to bruise the vermouth and with not one but two olives of course) all before the door had a chance to close behind him. I bet you kept your audience in stitches today, didn’t ya big boy! It may be the same joke everyday but she loved the response she always got.

Oh, you know how it is, I was quite the cut up in high school, you found my wit to be as sharp as a scalpel while we were dating, and now our two hearts are permanently sutured together with love, came Skip’s conditioned reply just as he had responded to the supposedly love of his life’s attempt at humor every day for as long as he could remember.

Skip knew that he had it made. At six foot four inches tall and a solid two hundred fifteen pounds he was only too aware that he made quite a striking figure, what with his five thousand dollar custom tailored double breasted silk suit, his tasseled Italian loafers, and with his hair cut into a mullet. The thought had even passed through his mind once or twice that he would probably make a great model for one of those romance book covers. He was making more money than any doctor in the state by doing something he loved. All day long, young women, most of whom were already a ‘10’ into anybody’s eyes except their own, placed what God had given them into his talented hands in their search for perfection. He had a beautiful wife (she should be, after all he did some of his best work on her) who adored him waiting for his return home each day. That his home happened to be a twenty three room palatial estate full of antiques and renaissance artwork was just one of the many perks in his life. Another one of those perks was that very perky new secretary of his, Bambi, that he had hired a few months ago. Skip didn’t think it possible that life could get much better than this.

Suzy knew that she too had it made and she was determined to keep it that way. When she welcomed her husband home with a kiss each day she was doing more than letting him know how much she missed him. She was also checking for that telltale hint of cheap perfume or trace of lipstick that a woman looking to win a husband, anybody’s husband, is wont to leave. Especially a woman like that new secretary her husband hired, Bambi! Suzy smiled to herself, Skip passed inspection again today just like always, and said huskily Your pipe and slippers are waiting for you in your den along with the paper. Why don’t you rest your weary bones while I go toil away in the kitchen for a few more minutes? We are having your favorite dinner tonight, home made Kung Pao. Actually its delivery, but like my mother . . . , she stopped short for a moment, then continued, but like the mother on that commercial always says . . . nothing smells like lovin like something from the local neighborhood Chinese carryout restaurant’s oven.

I hope that you don’t mind, Guido is staying overnight at your sister Sally’s house. He has been begging her to take him to the seashore on one of her seashell selling sorties for quite awhile and she thought that if he stayed the night they would be able to leave at the crack of dawn. I thought that after dinner, Suzy continued adding more than a little bit of seduction in her voice, we could put on a little Mozart or maybe that Henry Mancini album that you like so much. Oh, and by the way I took the liberty to turn on the hot tub. How about it big boy, what say we take advantage of our home alone time tonight. If you want I will even go down to the wine cellar and bring up that bottle of Champaign we’ve been saving for a special occasion. Bambi never actually gave Suzy a reason to be suspicious, outside of the fact that her skirt was always a little too tight and a lot too short for Suzy’s comfort but she wasn’t about to let her man slip away from her without a fight.

You know enjoying that glass of bubbly with you, while we are soaking in a spa full of bubbly listening to a little bit of Lawrence Welk’s bubble music sounds like a pretty good idea to me too, Skip replied poetically as he finished off his drink. Looking forlornly at his empty glass, Skip continued As they say everyone has to believe in something and I believe that I need to refill my drink. Tell you what, I’ll go ahead and do just that while you finish up toiling in the kitchen. Call me when dinner is ready. With that Skip left his wife and headed into his den for the pipe that Suzy unfailingly had waiting for him. He had a large collection of antique pipes, some of them were over two hundred years old, but the one that Suzy always prepared for him was the imitation corn cob pipe that was handed down to him by his father, the late Congressman David Fonda.

Family tradition had it that this was the very pipe that his great grandfather, Captain Phonde’ (his son, Skip’s grandfather, chose to drop the accent mark and old world spelling from the family name, he thought that it was a little bit ostentatious and tended to make for some strange attempts at pronunciation, in favor of the more phonetic form that Skip uses today, Fonda) of the soon to be called Confederate Navy, was trying to light when he accidently dropped his stick match onto the fuse of a cannon located just outside of Fort Sumter that fateful night of April 12, 1861. The match went whoosh, the fuse went sssss, the cannon went boom, and the world was never to be the same again.

Just as Skip expected there was the afore mentioned corncob pipe, its bowl freshly packed with his favorite brand of cherry tobacco, George Washington’s Private Blend, resting as usual right next to his favorite picture of Suzy, the one where she looks as if she must have been about fifteen months pregnant for their son, Guido. The fact that he kept that picture of her in a place of honor smack dab in the middle of his prized custom made solid mahogany roll top desk, the one that was a gift that the president of the Confederacy, Jefferson Davis, personally gave to his great grandfather out of gratitude for his role as a blockade runner during the final months of the ‘War Between the States’, should have been a clue to Skip about exactly how important Suzy truly was in his life. A Dime Store variety novelty cannon shaped cigar lighter lay waiting alongside the pipe. Although he was lord of the manor this was the only room in the house where Suzy put up with his one and only vice, smoking. I wonder if Bambi would be a little bit more understanding of my needs, Skip mused under his breath. He knew without looking that alongside the pipe he would find today’s newspaper already turned to the sports page and the morning’s mail. He couldn’t help but wonder if Suzy was aware of how well trained she had become. Yes, he said to himself, life is good.

This call’s for you, this call’s for you, this call’s for-, sang Skips cell phone.

Your nickel, answered Skip good naturally as he flipped it open.

Good evening sir/ madam. I am happy to inform you that you just won a free trip to-,a recorder voice, with a Cuban accent that put Skip’s to shame, managed to say before Skip flipped his cellular closed again.

Not another frigging telemarketing call. Skip had developed a system for handling telemarketers that seemed to work very well. He would listen to their spiel just long enough to determine that was what the call was about then he would hang up the telephone without saying another word. Simple! Effective! It was a mystery to him why Suzy found it so difficult to do the same. Now, finally, maybe he would be able to enjoy that pipe and the sports page before Suzy had dinner on the table.

Almost immediately his cell phone began again This call’s for you, this call’s for you, this call’s for-

WHAT, agitatedly shouted Skip into his cellular, this telemarketer would not get off so easily!

Mr. Fonda, excuse me for bothering you sir, but do you have a wife named Suzy? politely inquired a voice that Skip could not identify. Thus began my first actual contact with the Fondas. With a little bit of luck and God’s blessing it wasn’t to be my last!

Here is how this is going to work, replied Skip, his voice showing more than a little irritation. First you tell me who you are and what this call is all about and then I may or may not be interested in answering your questions.

Fair enough, sorry if I got ahead of myself. My name is Yea and I am-, I began again.

Yea . . . you say your name is Yea? Skip considered himself a gentleman under pressure but under stupidity all bets were off What kind of a name is that?

That’s fine, I get that all the time. Yes, my name is Yea. My mother was Hebrew. I never was sure if Yea was some sort of family name or just my mother’s idea of a joke but either way I’m stuck with it. It is kind of fun though when I run across a child at the mall that recognizes me. They always call out Yea, Yea! People will stop and turn to see what is so exciting to cause such a joyful outburst from a little one!

Ok, I get it, your name is Yea. Now what is it you want Yea? If this is some kind of a sells pitch you are wasting your valuable time and mine. Skip’s voice was now showing even more irritation at this continued disruption in his ‘me’ time. He reached for his pipe and the cannon shaped lighter; if this Yea character wanted to ramble on Skip rationalized that he might as well take a puff or two while he does so!

Mr. Fonda, I am sure that you have heard this before but this time it is true. I am not selling anything. I am not trying to save your soul in exchange for a twenty dollar donation to my church. I’m not-

Like I said, I am a busy man even if you aren’t. What is it that you ARE trying to do Mr. Yea? Skip once more abruptly interrupted. Taking one long hard pull and then a second one he managed to light his pipe. Ah, he sighed to himself, that first puff of cherry flavored smoke always tastes the best!

Fair enough, here is the reason for my call. Thirty years ago I met a young lady, Marianne, when she was but a sophomore and i a senior at Fairmont High School, you’ve probably never heard of it but in Indiana it’s pretty famous for one of its past students, a Jimmy something or other. We instantly fell madly in love. Actually I fell instantly in love the first time I saw her walking through the band room door. What a vision of beauty she was! It took her a couple of months to see past my pocket protector, plaid pants, and JROTC hair cut. Once I finally convinced her to go out with me she was able to see that even a geek like me could be bonafide boyfriend material-

Is there some kind of a point to this story? interrupted Skip yet once more. He picked up the lighter again, even after smoking a pipe for twelve years Skip still could not keep one lit for more than a few puffs at a time. Two more long pulls and poof he was back in business again. Swirls of smoke encircled his head like a wreath just as described in the quintessential Christmas poem.

Fair enough, the short story is that directly after high school I enlisted in the Marines and lost all contact with Marianne. We never saw each other again. Then last week, from out of the blue, I received a letter from Marianne’s sister, Savana, telling me that she had died two months ago (i chose to keep the part about mental hospitals and drug addiction to myself) and that there was something that she felt that I should know. You see Mr. Fonda, Marianne had a child later that summer that I never knew about. If only I would have known about the baby I would have been there for her. Alas I cannot change that now but I can be there for the woman that her baby became. As I am sure you have already figured out, that baby’s name was Suzette. Please don’t think badly of Marianne, she was but a fifteen year old child herself. Remember the world was a different place when it came to that type of thing thirty years ago. The letter went on to say that Marianne was torn between a choice of having an abortion, which would have given her the opportunity to pretend to herself that the baby never happened, and subjecting herself to nine months of public humiliation culminating in placing the baby up for adoption. She knew that either option left her without her baby. I thank God daily that she chose the path that let our baby live.

And for some reason you think that my wife Suzy is your daughter Suzette?Skip asked when I paused to let my news soak in. The smoke from his pipe had migrated out of the den and into the kitchen where Suzy took a deep breath. As much as she criticized Skip for his addiction to nicotine there was something about the smell of cherry pipe tobacco that brought her to a happy place, a time in her past when she was unconditionally loved. She had no way of knowing it but the fragment of memory that the smell of her husband’s pipe invoked was that of her grandfather, her mother’s daddy, that day all of those years ago when she was but six months old, that day when all five of them had been in the court room together, herself, her mother, her grandfather Gordon Hull, and the Phiesters. The judge had just found that her mother’s parental rights were to be terminated and her adoption to Chester Phiesters and his wife Elsie finalized, when her grandfather picked her up out of the baby carriage that he had as a labor of love built for her with his own two hands in his little workshop that was tucked back behind the garage and, taking the pipe out of his mouth, gave her the one and only kiss that he ever had the opportunity to give her. Sociologist insists that there is no way that an adult could possibly have memories from their infancy. That there is no way that Suzy could remember those five minutes that her grandfather held her in his arms that day. That there is no way that she could remember how good it felt to be held by someone who loved her unconditionally. That there was no way she could remember the tears in his eyes or the scent of his pipe. But there it is, somehow every time she catches that first wisp of cherry smoke she is momentarily transported back to a time when she felt safe, secure, loved.

Yes, yes I do. The adoption records themselves were sealed but thanks to the internet and more than a few trips to the library I was able to find that after the arrest of her adopted father for molesting her Suzy was raised primarily in the Allen County Children’s Home in Fort Wayne, Indiana sandwiched around a few unsuccessful placements with foster families. From there I found that she went to college at Ohio State University, where she graduated with honors. It was a small step from there to finding her wedding announcement to a Mr. Stephen Fonda. You are the seventeenth Stephen Fonda that I have called so far, I enthusiastically explained. Then in a voice not much louder than a whisper and with more than a hint of a broken heart I asked Mr. Fonda, I must know, is it possible that your wife is my Suzy?

Skip wasn’t sure what to say. My story had a ring of truth to it. Suzy never wanted to talk about it but Skip knew that she had been adopted as a baby. Then when she was twelve something bad happened and she ended up living in a string of foster homes until she went to college. He reasoned that even if I was actually Suzy’s biological father that still did not qualify me to be her dad. After all, it takes more than being a DNA donor to do that. Just look at what her adopted dad had done to her. It took another two long pulls on his pipe to get it to relight.

Mr. Fonda, are you still there, I asked nervously.

I’m still here. I was just trying to figure out what would be best for Suzy if it turns out that you are her father, answered Skip with a degree of introspection that surprised even him. Then he gruffly said what I was afraid he would say She has been emotionally traumatized by her past. Today she is happy, relatively well adjusted, and I will not permit that past to haunt her anymore.

Mr. Fonda, please reconsider. At least do this for me, talk to Suzy. Ask her if she knows anything about her birth mom. Ask her if she would like to. Mention me to her. Ask her if she would like to meet with me if only for a few minutes. If she says no, that the memories of her past that are locked away in the deepest darkest recesses of her psychic are just too painful to dredge back up, then tell her that I understand. I promise that I will then leave you and your family alone. If she says yes, and I pray that she will, maybe we could have our first meeting at a museum or some other public place, a restaurant maybe. That way she may feel more at ease than she might with a stranger knocking on her door.

Mr. Yea, there is a restaurant on main street, Paula’s Sea Food. If Suzy agrees we will be there tomorrow night at 6 p.m. I will have reservations for three under my name, I go by Skip. If you do not see us there then the answer is no and I will appreciate your keeping your word not to further contact us, agreed?

Agreed, looking forward to meeting you at 6. Good day Mr. Fonda.

Goodbye Mr. Yea. As Skip was hanging up the telephone Suzy was walking through the door.

Who was on the phone, dear? Suzy inquired coolly, no way was she going to let that bimbo Bambi or the institute monopolize the evening she had planned.

I’m not sure, Skip answered with an element of perplexity, he said his name was Mr. Yea.

What kind of a name is Yea? Then, being as she didn’t perceive a threat to her evening, she dismissed the entire matter with a flippant Dinner’s ready.

My first contact with the Fonda’s went just as I had prayed for. Mr. Fonda had been cautious but open minded. That is, he became open minded once he figured out that I really wasn’t trying to sell him a time-share condo in Tahiti. As a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, my six month mission as Facilitator to the Fondas began with a single telephone call.

CHAPTER 3

A Conversation Amongst the Bubbles

Suzy had pulled out all of the stops. She had arraigned to have Guido spend the night at her sister-in-law’s place so that she could have Skip’s attention all to herself for the evening. Not only had she served her husband his favorite dinner, Kung Pao, but Suzy had taken the time to serve it on the good china instead of their eating it straight out of the little carryout boxes like they normally did. The dining room lights had been turned off and they had dined by candle light. Brahms’ violin concerto in D major, his only violin concerto, played on the stereo (Suzy especially favored the second movement). The wine had been chilled to perfection, 47degrees, bringing out its innate flavors and full aroma. When they had first married Suzy had insisted that wine was best served warm, at room temperature like she read is customary in England, it took Skip a bit of persuading to convince her that no one who had ever been to England would confuse room temperature with the word warm. She had changed out of her jeans and tee shirt into that little black dress that Skip insisted was his next to favorite thing for her to have on. Gone were the peace sign earrings, in there stead were diamond studs. Of her earlier outfit only her pearls remained. Yet all through dinner Skip had remained aloof, distant, distracted.

Now here they were in the hot tub. This time Henry Mancini was playing on the stereo. This time she was attired in her husband’s favorite manner. This time it was that special bottle of Champaign that set chilled in the ice bucket not just their normal discount store variety bottle of wine. This time she was not sitting across the table from Skip but snuggled up next to him. The water temperature was just right, 103 degrees. Everything was perfect, that is everything except for Skip. He was still staring vacantly out into space. He didn’t even seem to notice the tears. The tears that were streaming down her cheeks as she plaintively asked It’s Bambi, isn’t it?

Bambi? Startled out of his introspection, Skip’s mind started to race. Oh no, what was she talking about? Defensively he ventured Bambi, what about Bambi? If that bimbo had told her about what happened at that boring Plastic Surgery Convention last week she’ll be looking for work tomorrow. As they say what happens at conventions stays at conventions! Skip decided it might be best to go on the offensive Don’t tell me that you feel threatened by her. My god, she is only an eighteen year old child. You are a thirty year old woman. She goes out and parties every night. You stay home and tuck our son into bed every night. Her idea of a good time involves some combination of sex, drugs, and rock and roll. You enjoy reading Guido bedtime stories.

I’m . . . not the . . . idiot you think I . . . am, answered Suzy chocking on her tears. You’re leaving me . . . for that tramp . . . aren’t you? Then with deserved indignation she added And exactly how do you know what her idea of a good time is?

That comment about sex, drugs, and rock and roll might have been a bit much but it was too late to back down now. Skip continued being on the offensive Are you nuts, why in the world would I do a thing like that? Why indeed would he leave her for Bambi? After all he knew that if